Binding Ties
by thatTaylorgirl
Summary: The team is faced with a new, yet familiar, fear as two CSIs are held hostage. Will they be found in time? Final Chapter up!
1. Epilogue

**Title:** Binding Ties

**Author:** thatTaylorgirl

**Disclaimer: **Don't own a thing...not even the computer...it's my dads...not mine...and as for the characters...yeah...I WISH I owned them...

**Author Note:** As promised...here's the first look at what's to come from me! Hope you enjoy. This is gonna be my first go at an action piece...so we'll see how it goes! As usual...reviews are always appreciated...and especially valued in that this is the first of my action writing...let me know how it goes! Gracias!

* * *

Prologue

* * *

The air was heavy with moisture. The sky threatened to unleash it's fury as thunder rumbled in the distance. The eastern sky was beginning to lighten, the first hint of dawn peaking over the horizon. The blue-gray color promised to bring the threatening rain. Rain was not welcome here. Grissom scowled at the ominous sky. 

Things had rapidly gotten out of hand. He wasn't sure where things had gone wrong, he just knew they had. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It wasn't supposed to end this way.

"I don't _care_ what you have to do," Catherine was practically yelling into her cell phone, "you find them and bring them back." The fire in her eye matched the intensity of the fire in the sky as lightning cracked open the heavens. She quickly flipped her phone closed and jammed it into the pocket of her parka. "They're _working_ on it," she shook her head emphatically as she rejoined Grissom on the scene.

"Grissom, what do you think happened here?" Sara asked standing from her crouched position. She surveyed the chaotic scene brushing a strand of her brown hair from her face. He eyes gave away the emotions she tried so hard to bury beneath the surface. She'd never been very good at that.

It had once been a quiet scene. It had once been a scene of unity, peace, and hope. It had once been a place where kids could play, where families could come together in community, in support. It had once been a place where people could feel save, where kids could live without fear.

That had all changed.

It was still quiet, but now it was an empty place, a place full of ghosts. Children's laughter echoed throughout the halls of the now deserted community center, haunting the unoccupied building. Hollow footsteps echoed down the corridors. Gang graffiti tagged the exterior of the concrete form. The story of territory wars throughout the past five years evident from the multi layers of paint tags. Now the Buena Vista Springs Community Center was a scene of anger, aggression, hostility, and death.

"I don't know," Grissom shook his head, his hands buried deep in his navy blue parka. He tried hard to make sense of the scene, of the chaos before his eyes.

The evidence was elusive. While battling to make sense of the concrete, of the tangible, the abstract battled for control. His emotions battled to overcome; they battled for some sense of normalcy. Anger threatened to cloud his own objectivity, to take over his very being.

He could almost picture the scene unfolding.

_Nick and Warrick respond to the homicide in the North Las Vegas community. A ground war erupts, gangs duking it out. His guys are caught in the middle, with nowhere to go. Then…_

"We're almost done here," Greg said joining Sara near the rusty swing set. "What have you got?"

"I've got a bullet," she responded taking in the details of the tiny hunk of metal in her forceps.

"Looks like a 22 caliber," Greg said opening a bindle and holding it out for the bullet to be dropped into for evidence. "I'll get it to Bobby. I found some tire tread in the parking lot. I'll run them through the database," the young CSI said standing to gather his field kit. Had it only been months since the man that stood before her had seemed to much a kid. When had he grown up, become so mature? When had he changed?

Grissom rarely let his emotions show. But the look in his eyes even gave Catherine the willies. She knew he was worried; hell she was scared out of her wits. The stroke of luck the team had been dealt the past several months had been nothing but bad. And now their luck seemed to have just gotten worse.

The scene was nothing but chaos. So many potential pieces of evidence to be gathered threatened the long arduous process of sorting through them, deciding what was probative and what was not. It would take time, time Grissom knew they didn't have. He couldn't make heads or tails of what was before his eyes, and it scared the hell out of him.

* * *

He wasn't sure where he was. The darkness was overwhelming, the continuous droning of….what the hell was that? 

Lying on his side, Warrick let out a low groan as his mind slowly began to make sense of his surroundings. He slowly opened his eyes, now aware that his hands were bound behind his back, he was in the back of a van and they were moving.

White hot pain shot through his left shoulder as he attempted to adjust his position. Memories quickly erupted shooting him back to the fire fight in which he and his partner had been caught just hours…minutes?... ago. His partner…Nick!

_Where was Nick?_

Working his body into a semi-upright position his eyes fell upon Nick's limp body. The echoes of gunfire ripped through his memory as the sight of his partner falling to the ground clouded his vision.

"Nick, man," he said inching closer to the man whose hands were also bound. "Nick, bro…wake up," he continued giving his friend a nudge.

Slowly the man started coming to.

"Hey man, come on," Warrick said doing his best to keep his voice low yet audible enough to reach over the rumble of the van's engine.

Nick moaned as he slowly awoke, doing his best to adjust his own uncomfortable position. He grimaced in pain as the movement ripped at his injuries.

Warrick's eyes never left his friend, his partner, as the man realized their situation. He didn't look good. The concern he felt, the worry, was overwhelming. He'd felt these feelings before, the feelings of fear, fear for his friends life. It didn't mean he was used to it, or liked it any better.

Their situation, weighing heavily on his shoulders, looked even worse as he felt the van slow in speed.

"Where are we?" Nick asked weakly, obviously masking his discomfort.

"I don't know, man," Warrick said trying to listen for anything that may give him a clue. There were no windows in the vehicle. There were no visible lights. There were no signs, no possible clues, as to their location.

Nick kept his eyes closed, willing the darkness, the blissful darkness, to take him again. He rested his head on the van wall. The constant jarring, jostling, of the moving van was wreaking havoc on his already brutalized body.

"Hey, man, you've got to stay awake," Warrick said nudging the man beside him. "Stay with me, bro." He regretted getting his friend into this situation. If he hadn't insisted on returning to the crime scene they wouldn't be here. Wherever here was. It seemed that they had just gotten out of their last skirmish only to fall seemingly headfirst into this one. They were no strangers to trouble, it was true. It didn't mean they were any more used to it, though, or better capable of getting themselves out.

"Yeah," Nick nodded groggily. "Yeah…I'm with you. You…you know we're in trouble right?" he asked eyeing his friend.

"Yeah, man. I know. We're in a hell of a lot of trouble," Warrick nodded leaning his own head against the vehicle wall.

"You look like hell, you know that?" Nick asked with a slight glimmer in his eye.

"You're one to talk," Warrick snickered, grimacing again from the pain in his shoulder. He could feel the wound oozing each time he moved. "How you holdin' up?" he asked taking in the man across from him. He'd taken a bullet to his stomach, his orange shirt soaked in blood. The wound on his neck look superficial, hopefully nothing much to worry about.

"I'll be alright," Nick nodded, hoping not only to reassure his friend, but to reassure himself. He was scared. He wasn't a stranger to fear. That fact alone, though, was not enough to stave off the panic of feeling the emotion.

They were in a tight spot, a really tight spot. It was a waiting game now. The next move was up to the men driving the van. They were holding all the cards.

The van slowly came to a stop. The CSIs listened as the men climbed down from the vehicle, closing the van doors. They spoke to each other, their voices muffled, indistinguishable to the men inside. The CSIs braced themselves as the back doors were opened. Light flooded the back of the van, casting their captors in shadow.

Their time was running out. They only hoped Grissom would find them before it ran out completely.


	2. Chapter 1

**Note:** I'm back...here's chapter one. Thank you so much for all the reviews! Sorry I haven't been able to get out replies..it's been such a weird...such a HARDweek! Thanks for being understanding about all this crap going on. I neverexpectedto be so impacted by this girl's death...it's still getting me...man!  
Anyway...thank youall so much for reading...to answer a couple questions...yes...you'll find out how all this unfolds...howwe got to the point with Nick and Warrick bound in the back of a van...and yes...it'll all be explained. No worries!  
Anyway...enjoy this chapter...it's light...a little background leading up to where we're going!  
Without further adue...

* * *

Chapter One

* * *

"Face it Sara, the guy just didn't do it," Nick said as he followed his fellow CSI down the dimly lit corridor of the lab. It was late, or early, he wasn't quite sure which. It was still dark outside the last time he'd checked, but it'd been hours since then. 

"Hey," Warrick patted the man on his shoulder as he passed the two of them in the hall. "You guys wrapping that thing up?" he asked after their case.

"Yeah," he smirked. "You?"

"Ah, I'm all over this one," the tall CSI nodded making his way down the hall.

Nick nodded as he watched the man enter the DNA lab. He and Sara were neck deep in their own case, almost to the point of putting the thing to bed, he hoped.

"I don't buy it, Nick," she said beside him stopping in her tracks to face the man she was talking to. "We found blood on his clothes, the murder weapon with his prints on it…" she trailed off.

"I just got this from the print lab," he shook his head. "The prints on the knife handle _were_ his, I'll give you that," he said handing her the file from the print lab. He allowed her time to read through the report.

"His prints were _in_ the blood," she said her eyes scanning the report.

"Not _under_ the blood. If he'd killed his wife…"

"There was another set of prints?" Sara asked interrupting the man's thoughts.

"If what he says is true," Nick nodded. His brown eyes were alive and energetic. It was a look that sent chills up Sara's spine.

"We're looking for another suspect."

"I'm way ahead of you," Nick nodded. "Check it out," he smiled handing her another piece of paper. "We missed something the first time on the scene. I went back to the house while you were at autopsy."

"You went back to the house without me?" she asked pursing her lips, her eyes lit with playfulness.

"Hey, I was following a hunch," he shrugged picking back up on their trek down the hall. "Don't tell Grissom. Anyway, I used the electromagnetic print lifter on the kitchen floor. The man always loved the laminate flooring. Now I know why," he gave a small laugh as they entered the break room. "I picked up several different prints. One set belonged to the wife. One set belonged to the husband," he paused pouring himself a cup of coffee.

"Come on Nick," Sara urged as she pulled out a bottle of water from the mini-fridge.

"I found a third set of prints," he nodded. "They belonged to an unknown male, size 12. From the treads on the soles I'd say they were a pair of Rockport shoes," he said taking a seat at the table.

"Old man shoes? Doesn't really narrow it down. No offense," she sighed tucking a brown lock of hair behind her ear.

"Yeah, but what kind of men do you know that wear Rockports?"

"Well, Grissom…" Sara shrugged taking a drink.

"I had the print lab run the second set of prints through AFIS, and we got a hit," Nick laughed.

"Kyle Duncan," Sara read the report.

"He's the Dunsmore's CPA," he nodded. "Brass is bringing him in now," he nodded.

"Nice," Sara nodded.

"I'm waiting on the judge for a warrant to search the guy's house," he said just as his cell phone rang. "Stokes," he said flipping the small electronic device open. "Yeah…okay…thanks, man. We've got ourselves a warrant," he smiled flipping the phone closed.

"Let's go catch ourselves a bad guy," Sara smiled following Nick out of the break room.

* * *

"Now, Mr. Duncan, you seem like a relatively reasonable guy. Why don't you just tell me what happened?"

Nick and Sara stood behind the double paned mirror watching Brass interview their new suspect. The man was unflappable.

"Look, we already know you killed Cynthia Dunsmore. Now, just tell me what happened," Brass said taking a seat across the table from the still silent man. He didn't look like a killer, by any means. He looked like somebody's grandfather. An old man, probably in his late 60's, wearing a navy sweater and a pair of khaki pants. His dark gray hair was covered by a Navy Seals ball cap. His eyes were the only thing that gave him away. They were deep, dark, and void of any emotion. The old man was a stone.

Discouraged, maybe that wasn't the right word; Brass stood and made his way to the pane of glass separating him from the CSIs he knew were in the next room. That was their signal.

Nick entered the interview room first, Sara was right behind him.

"Mr. Duncan, I'm Nick Stokes, this is Sara Sidle. We're from the crime lab." The old man took in the appearance of the two criminalists.

"Mr. Duncan, you want to tell us how your fingerprints got on the knife that killed Mrs. Dunsmore?" Sara asked sliding a photo of the murder weapon across the table for the man to see.

"You don't have to answer that," the man's attorney spoke up.

"You're right," Brass nodded, "but if you don't, think how that makes you look."

"Maybe you can explain, then, how we found you bloody footprints in the Dunsmore's kitchen," Nick said.

"Or maybe, the bloody clothes we found in your garbage," Sara said with a raised brow. "Mrs. Dunsmore's blood was all over the shirt we found."

"Look, we've got more than enough to hold you," Brass said standing behind the CSIs. "Talk, don't talk, it's your choice," he shrugged as he turned to lead Nick and Sara out of the room.

"It wasn't supposed to be her," the man said subsequently causing the detective and criminalists to turn and face him. A tear slowly slid down the man's cheek.

"I'd be careful with what you say," the lawyer said putting a hand on the man's shoulder.

"What the hell good's it gonna do now?" he asked, throwing an icy glare at the man next to him. "She was supposed to leave him. She wasn't happy in her marriage. She wasn't supposed to be the one in the kitchen. My damn eyesight hasn't been the same since the war," he shook his head. "It was supposed to be…" he trailed off.

"The husband," Nick said, his voice low, barely above that of a whisper.

The old man nodded slowly, hesitantly.

He didn't know how to respond to this realization. He should be used to the surprises of the human condition. What people do to each other shouldn't surprise him anymore. He remembered the case Warrick had last year, an elderly man shot and killed a telephone sales rep. He was ex-military, like Mr. Duncan. Nick turned to leave the room, following Brass and Sara.

"So an old woman plots with her lover to have her husband killed," Brass sighed. "Typical," he smirked. "Well, I'll walk him down to central booking. Nice job guys," the detective offered a weary smile.

Sara and Nick nodded in reply.

"What time have you got?" Sara asked as she walked alongside Nick, heading back to the lab.

"Uh, almost eight," he replied.

"You headed home?"

"Rick and I are headed out," he shook his head. "It's Greg's birthday."

"Oh yeah," she smiled with a nod noticing Grissom in his office. "Have fun. I'll see you tonight," she said cutting away down the hall toward the man's office.

"Later," Nick nodded heading to the locker room.

"You close your case?" Warrick asked placing his service piece in his locker.

"Yeah," Nick nodded wearily. "You?"

"Yeah," he replied unbuttoning his shirt.

"You sure Tina's cool with you staying out?" Nick asked with a small chuckle, hoping desperately to get the case out of his head.

"Ah, it's cool," Warrick nodded, pulling on a UNLV tee shirt. "She's working. Besides, you think she dictates everything I do?"

"Face it, Rick, she's got you whipped," Nick nodded placing his own service piece in his locker.

"Hey," Warrick said pointing a finger at his partner. "I am _not_ whipped, bro."

"Oh, you're whipped. You've got the hash marks on your back to prove it," he laughed changing his shirt.

"Well, just because I got the girl…" he laughed.

"Ah, you're gonna throw that sucker punch huh?" Nick shook his head. "That's a low blow," he smiled.

"You think so?" Warrick smiled. "Low blows beat the upper cut every time," he smirked playfully pushing his partner out into the hall his fists up ready for the boxing duel.

Nick laughed with a nod, taking his stance, ready for the fight. "Well, I'll let it go this time," he nodded straightening his posture. "I don't wanna hurt ya."

"Ya think so, huh?" Warrick smiled.

"Hey, have you seen Greg around?" Nick asked as they headed toward the break room.

"Not since mid-shift. My money's on the break room," he pointed as they rounded the corner.

Sure enough the young CSI was stretched out deep into a magazine, oblivious to his surroundings. Was he sleeping?

Nick passed a glance toward Warrick, a menacing grin on his face. The message of his menacing glance clearly received. Warrick offered a stealth nod, a grin crossing his own face.

"GREGGO!" Nick smiled tackling the man on the couch.

"What the…" Greg stammered, startled by the sudden attack.

"Man, what the hell you doing sleepin' on the job?" Warrick asked taking a seat next to his friends. "You want Grissom on your ass?"

"I'm…I'm off the clock," the younger man stammered glancing at his watch. He rubbed a hand across his face trying to wake himself up.

"Well, what are ya still doing here?" Nick asked slightly winded by the dive he took. "Let's get out of here," he stood leading the way out of the room. "Oh, Greggo," he said stopping in his tracks. "Happy birthday," he smiled pulling the man in a headlock and applying the world's best noogie to the top of the kid's head.

"Yeah, man," Warrick slapped his friend on the back. "You got plans?"

"Well, not…"

"Good, we've made plans for you," Nick laughed as they walked out of the lab. "I'll drive," he said pulling out his sunglasses.

The sun was working its way higher into the sky. It was going to be a warm day. Spring promised an early return this year. Nick breathed deeply, allowing the fresh air to fill his lungs. It was going to be a good day.

"So where we headed?" Greg asked piling into Nick's SUV.

"Only the best place in Vegas," he smiled.

"Ah, man, I hate the batting cages. The last time you guys took me there I made a total fool of myself," Greg wined. "I don't have the mechanics for baseball."

"Now, come on man, would we really humiliate you on your birthday?" Warrick asked from the back seat.

"Okay, it's the second best place in Vegas," Nick laughed weaving his vehicle out of the parking lot and into traffic. "Now no more questions. What good's a surprise if you guess it?"

It took nearly a half hour to get to their destination. Traffic was unusually heavy for the early morning hour.

"You're kidding right?" Greg asked taking in the sight before his eyes. He was like a kid in a candy store. "Are you serious?"

"One hundred percent," Warrick laughed climbing out of the vehicle.

"Hey, Chip," Nick said to the man that met them in the parking lot. "Thanks for giving us the track," he shook the man's hand.

"No problem," the man nodded. "It's all yours."

Nick and Warrick led the way down to the race track. Go-carts lined the outer track, three of which had been singled out and lined up, ready to race.

Each man piled into a car, ready to outdo the others.

"Your ass is mine," Warrick called after Nick as they were given the green light.

The men passed the next two hours racing. The sun was at its highest point in the sky as they pulled their cars back to their original starting position.

"Damn, I had you that time," Warrick shook his head as the three walked off the track and back toward the parking lot.

"Face it man, I'm just the better driver," Greg laughed.

"I got cramped. Those damn cars aren't built for…"

"Yeah, yeah," Greg laughed. "You're what…all of three inches taller than me? Nice try."

"Alright," Warrick nodded in resignation. "You are the go-cart master."

"Now was that so hard to say?" the younger man laughed.

"You guys hungry?" Nick asked starting the engine and pulling out of his parking spot.

"Starving," Greg said buckling his seat belt.

The drive to the diner took only fifteen minutes. After eating, and returning Warrick and Greg to the lab for their own vehicles, Nick found himself alone, driving home.

He was tired, no doubt about it. It had been a great day; it had been a well rounded day. There wasn't much he enjoyed more than time with his two best friends, except maybe sleep. Sleep was good. He always made an exception for sleep.

Pulling into his driveway, Nick turned the engine off and walked the length of the driveway to check his mail. The usual bills filled the metal box as he opened the hatch and retrieved the handful of envelopes.

Unlocking his front door, Nick entered his home, slinging his coat across the back of the chair nearest him in the living room. He threw his keys and wallet on the bar separating his kitchen from his living room. The answering machine flashed with new messages. He pushed the play button, listening to his missed calls as he scanned his mail.

_Message one: Nicky, honey, it's Mom. Haven't talked to you in a while. Just wondering how you're doing. Call me. Love you._

_Message erased._

_Message two: Hey man, it's Rick. You're not home. I think I left my shades in your backseat. Catch ya later._

_Message erased._

_Message three: Nicky, it's Mom again…_

_Message erased._

Nick made his way down the hall, to the welcoming presence of his bed. Closing his door, pulling down the shades to block out the light, Nick pulled off his tee shirt, slipped out of his jeans and crawled into the vast expanse that was his queen sized bed. Quickly setting his alarm, he allowed the warmth of the blankets to envelope him, welcoming the oncoming state of unconsciousness. It was bliss.


	3. Chapter 2

**Note:** Here's the next installment. Hope y'all enjoy! Thanks for all the reviews! I'm working on replying to them...if I miss someone...i'm really sorry! My mailbox is kinda messed up right now..so anyway...here ya go!

* * *

Chapter Two

* * *

Nick moaned, slowly rolling over onto his back. Was it really time to move? Forcing his eyes open he glared at his alarm clock as it continued to drone over on his bedside table. The red numbers glared back, telling him the story he dreaded hearing. It really _was_ time to move.

Grunting a few choice words, Nick slowly and deliberately stretched his muscles and reached over to shut off the alarm. His body was screaming at him for the go cart escapades earlier that day. He wasn't a teenager anymore, and his body was violently reminding him of that as he slowly stood, feeling the muscles in his back tense in anger at the movement. Raising his arms above his head, he slowly moved his upper body from side to side hoping to loosen the tense muscles.

Grabbing up a pair of jeans off his floor and a random shirt from his closet, Nick made his way toward the bathroom. He needed to shower something fierce.

The pulsating hot water worked its magic on his back. He could feel his muscles loosening up as he stood under the spray of water. Unable, or simply unwilling to move, he soaked in the relaxation the hot water rushed to his body.

Finally, willing his body to move he finished in the bathroom. Dressing rather haphazardly, he made his way to the kitchen, in time to catch his cell phone buzzing on the counter. Checking the caller ID, he put the phone back down. It was his mother again. He really didn't feel like being bothered by her questions, her concern.

_Are you getting enough sleep?_

_How are you holding up?_

_Are you eating?_

He was tired of giving the same answers, assuring his parents, his mom, that he was fine. It didn't help, they…she still called. Putting his phone in it's holder on his hip he turned toward the fridge. Opening it to survey the slim choices, he opted for a Diet Coke and a granola bar. He really needed to make time to go grocery shopping. It would have to wait, he thought glancing at his watch.

Grabbing his keys, shoving his wallet in his back pocket, he grabbed his coat and was out the door.

As most people were getting ready for bed, calling it a day, Nick was just coming alive. He'd been on the graveyard shift since he'd moved to Vegas. How long had it been now? At first it was hard to adjust to the different lifestyle, but now he wouldn't change it for anything. He loved his job, was used to the hours, and more than anything loved the people he worked with.

When Ecklie had split the team up a year ago, it'd been wrenching on the whole team. They knew, subconsciously, they wouldn't always be together. They knew one day the team would be split up, but the circumstances under which it had happened was harsh, uncalled for, grounded in the bitterness of the lab supervisor toward the graveyard supervisor.

Last summer, though, when it seemed the world had tilted on its axis, and Nick had been…abducted…he still had trouble with that word…the lab supervisor hadn't hesitated in re-uniting the team. They were more than a team. They were family.

No, now he was used to the life. It was what kept him going, what kept him thriving, regardless how much his body protested it at times.

Nick made his way to his SUV, pushing the button on his key ring to disengage the security system. Climbing into the driver seat, he put the key in the ignition. He could see the window of his neighbor's house illuminated within with the glow of the television. While people were watching the evening news, he was making it.

Pulling out of his driveway, he made the all-too-familiar drive to the lab. It was a drive he could probably make blindfolded, and quite often had made in a very much trance like state of mind. He'd lost count of the times he'd spaced out during the fifteen minute drive, unaware of his surroundings, lost in his own thoughts. It was often unnerving to realize he had no recollection of the drive he'd just made. Relief mixed with concern at the near miss of many accidents. He often wondered if it was a normal thing to do.

Traffic was light as he headed toward the lab complex. It was a Monday night, typically a quiet night in Vegas terms. He relished in the thought of a slow night, a chance to recoup from the arduous day and the rough case he'd just wrapped up.

Pulling into the lab parking lot, he found his unofficial spot and put his vehicle in park. Grabbing the abandoned pair of sunglasses from his backseat, he locked up his vehicle, arming the security system, and made his way into the building, his second home.

"Hey, Judy," he smiled routinely flashing his ID.

"Hey, Nick," the receptionist smiled watching the CSI walk past her toward the locker room.

He was early, the lab clearly in the midst of shift changes. Swing shift was in full…swing? Day shift was over hours ago, though a few hung around hoping to wrap their cases. Lab techs were busy in their own regards. Hodges, true to character, was busy talking the ear off some poor unsuspecting CSI. Was that a new CSI?

"Hey, Nick," Archie, the A/V tech, smiled as he passed the CSI in the hall.

"Hey, Archie. You're in early."

"Yeah, had some tapes to catch up on for days," he shrugged rushing on toward the dark viewing room. "See ya," he nodded ducking into the A/V lab, his domain.

"Yeah," the CSI nodded entering the locker room.

"Hey, man," Warrick nodded, the macho wave, as he busied himself buttoning his shirt.

"Hey," Nick smiled tossing the man his sunglasses. "You left these this morning."

"You got my message," he nodded catching the plastic frames with ease and placing them on the top shelf of his locker. "So, get this," he started as Nick opened his locker and began prepping his service pistol. "I get home from our excursion with Greg, right, expecting Tina to be at work."

"Yeah," Nick nodded; already interested in the direction to which this story was headed.

"So, I walk in the front door, dog tired, man. I was dead on my feet. I open the front door, not realizing that the thing was unlocked and there's Tina standing in the middle of the living room. She's _furious_," he shook his head, his voice emphasizing the last word.

"What? I thought she was working?"

"Yeah," Warrick smirked, "so did I. Turns out she didn't have to go in until late. So there she is, pacing the floor her arms crossed and shit. She starts letting me have it, right? For not calling her and shit like that," he continued readying his own service pistol and placing it in his side holster. "So, I'm standing there taking it and it dawns on me. So, here I am, standing there not sure how I'm still upright, and I start laughing."

"You start laughing?" Nick asked raising a brow.

"I'm laughing uncontrollably by now," he nodded in reply. "So, Tina stops whatever she's saying and just glares at me. _What the hell's so funny?_ She asks me, right? So I try to get control, and it's no use. I just sit there laughing."

"So what was so funny?"

"Whipped, man. You were right," he laughed pulling out his field vest and putting it on. "So, she's completely steamed at me for not calling her and whatnot."

"What'd you do?"

"Man, what could I do? I was too tired to explain everything. I just went to bed, man," he laughed shaking his head as he followed Nick out of the locker room. "Man, where does it say in the marriage handbook that I have to tell her everything anyway?" he asked.

"I don't know man, I think it just comes with the territory," Nick laughed zipping up his own field vest.

"Man, consider yourself blessed."

"Yeah, I'll keep that in mind," he nodded making a beeline for the coffeepot. "Damn, who left this thing empty?" he asked picking up the glass pot. "Hey, where does Greg stash his special blend?" Nick turned as Warrick flipped the TV over to Sports Center.

"Check the cabinet over the fridge," Warrick said taking a step back to watch the highlights of the day. "Kid may be a decent CSI, but he sure ain't good at hiding anything."

"Hey guys," Catherine smiled breezing into the room as Nick stealthy replaced the coffee grounds. Her strawberry blond hair framed her pristine complexion. The suit she wore complimented her figure as she almost glided across the floor with her easy gate. Her years as a dancer still evident in the way she moved.

"Hey, Cath," Warrick nodded, ninety-five percent of his attention remained on the TV screen.

"What are the scores?" Nick asked joining the man in front of the television.

"Pistons won today. Celtics lost, though."

"Typical," Nick shook his head returning to the coffee maker. He skillfully took the pot out from under the drip and replaced it with his cup allowing it to fill up before replacing the pot to its place. "You want a cup?" he asked Warrick.

"Nah, I'm good."

"Yes," Greg said rushing across the room. "There's fresh coffee."

"Uh, yeah…" Nick stammered slightly. "I…uh…just made it," he glanced to Warrick his eyes full of the laughter he worked to stifle as he crossed the room.

"So, Greg," Catherine said from the table. "How was your birthday?"

"It was good, it was good," he nodded taking a sip from his own mug of coffee. Confused by the familiar taste he stole a glance at Nick, whose attention remained on the TV screen. "Did a few rounds on the go cart track, slept an obscene amount of hours," he smiled sitting back in his chair. "It was good," he nodded with a smile. "Hey Nick, where exactly did you get this coffee?" he asked unable to let the confusion slide.

"Oh, this? It's my own special blend," he smiled taking a seat at the table, the TV still within eyesight. "Fresh from the mountains of Hawaii."

"Ah, come on. You mean I'm gonna have to find a new place to hide it now?"

"You should have actually hidden it in the first place, man," Warrick laughed. "Anyone would know to look in the cabinet above the fridge."

"You know I can only get that stuff a couple times a year, right?"

"Hey, man, like I said, hide it if you don't want it found," Warrick shrugged.

"Or, leave it at home," Catherine smiled with a raised brow.

"Hey," Sara smiled entering the room her brown hair pulled back in a rare, yet sloppy, ponytail. The team was all accounted for now. "Sweet, coffee," she smiled her usual gap-toothed smile as her eyes fell upon the half full pot on the counter.

"Help yourself," Nick smiled. "It's Greg's specialty. He loves sharing," he laughed at the slightly downcast look on the young man's face. "Chill bro," he patted the man on the shoulder. There's a whole new, fresh pound of the stuff in your locker,"

"What?" he asked his composure brightening.

"Yeah," Catherine gave her motherly grin.

"We all chipped in and bought you some more," Warrick ruffled the kid's hair.

"Happy birthday, Greg," Sara smiled as Grissom entered the room.

"Good, you're all here," he glanced around the room. "I've got assignments," he smiled holding up the oh-so-familiar white sheets of paper.

"Sara, you and Greg cover the B and E at the Hampton Street Market," he handed the sheet to the female CSI.

"Possible robbery?" she asked reading over the sheet then handing it to Greg.

"Possible," Grissom offered a half shrug and nod of his head. He watched as the two went on their way.

"Warrick, you and Nick cover the DB in Buena Vista Springs," he nodded handing Warrick the assignment slip.

"Damn, that's in the hood," he whistled between his teeth.

"El barrio, huh?" Nick asked glancing over his partners shoulder at the piece of paper in his clutch.

"There are a couple officers on the scene," Grissom nodded. "Stick around and talk with me before you head out," he said. "Catherine you're backing me up on a double homicide," he handed her the last slip of paper in his hand.

"I'll meet you at the car," she nodded reading her paper as she exited the room.

"Look," Grissom said motioning for the two CSIs to follow him to his office. "This is a possible drive by shooting."

"Gang related?" Nick asked.

"Maybe," the supervisor nodded moving in behind his desk. "There are already two officers on the scene. I don't want you guys taking any chances," he said casting a glance of warning at both men.

"You got it," Warrick nodded.

"Yeah," Nick nodded in agreement.

"I mean it, guys. If there's trouble get out of there, let the cops handle it."

"Yeah, we will," Nick assured his boss. "Grissom, no worries," he offered his million watt smile as assurance.

He and Warrick made their way out of the boss's office and down the hall. Stopping at the locker room only to grab their field kits, they exited the lab and climbed into the mobile crime unit.

The moon was full tonight and already high in the sky. Traffic was heavy, and got heavier the closer the criminalists got to The Strip. Nick settled back in his seat, Buena Vista Springs was in North Vegas, it would be a while before they'd arrive at the scene.

"Damn," Warrick sighed getting comfortable in the driver's seat. "I thought Monday's were supposed to be quiet?"

"Yeah," Nick sighed, his own frustration showing only slightly. His cell phone rang, the shrill sound breaking the calm of the silence within the vehicle.

"You gonna get that?" Warrick asked as the phone went unanswered after several rings.

Glancing at the caller ID, Nick returned the phone to its holster. "Nope," he shook his head.

"Who you avoiding this time?"

"My mom."

"Still? Man, when's the last time you talked to her?"

"A month ago?" Nick thought back, not really sure of the last time he'd held a real conversation with his mother. "I'm tired of the same old thing, every time I talk to her," he said his phone ringing again.

"So much for a quiet night," Warrick shook his head.

Nick whipped out his phone, turned off the ringer and returned the device to its place. "That'll do," he nodded. He leaned his head back on the head rest, watching the scenery make its way by as the vehicle inched closer to the interstate on ramp. He used the time to mentally prepare himself for what lay ahead.

An hour later, once past the traffic of The Strip, and the rush of highway traffic, Nick and Warrick pulled into the parking lot of the Buena Vista Springs Community Center. Red and blue lights lit up the night sky. Two officers guarded the blocked off scene as onlookers gaped behind the crime scene tape. The CSIs were not ready for what they met, as the crossed under the tape, Detective Vega meeting them and their shocked gazes.

"Damn," Warrick managed to say.

"You got that right," the detective nodded standing next to the CSIs taking in the gruesome scene.

It was going to be a long night.


	4. Chapter 3

**Note:** hey there everyone! not much to say...hope you're enjoying this. This chapter has a bit more action in it...and i work abit with Nick's bilingual skills...hope it goes over well! Thanks again for the reviews!

* * *

Chapter Three

* * *

They had expected one body.

They were met with three.

The two criminalists and detective stood near the perimeter of the scene silently taking in the chaos before them. The park was dark; no lighting around the perimeter would make it hard for them to gather evidence. The bodies of the victims lay about ten feet in front of them in shadow, two bodies face down on the ground, the other on his back. They had tried to run, to get out of the path of the gunfire. Blood pooled beneath each body, now, nearly becoming one large pool due to the closeness of the bodies' positions. They hadn't been able to run far. There was a lot of blood.

"So, what happened?" Warrick asked his eyes glued to the scene before him.

"Witnesses aren't talking," Vega shook his head. "You want my guess? The Rollin' 60's."

"The what?" the tall CSI asked this time facing the short detective.

"It's uh…" Nick chimed in, "a Hispanic gang. They started in L.A several years ago. They've slowly made their way to Vegas. They're pretty rough, heavy into drug trafficking."

Detective Vega nodded his head in accord with Nicks information.

"So, do they expect us to believe they didn't see anything or are they just afraid to talk?" Warrick asked motioning to the growing crowd of people on the other side of the crime scene tape.

"Take your pick," Vega shrugged. "Most of these people probably didn't come out until after the gunfire quit," he said walking with the CSIs over to the bodies. "This guy must have been the target," he said standing over the body of a male in his early twenties.

"Ah man," Nick said crouching near the other two bodies. "These guys are just kids," he shook his head taking in the appearance of the two younger boys. They couldn't be any older than fifteen or sixteen.

"What's that in the kid's hand?" Warrick asked pulling out his Maglite and illuminating the hand of the victim closest to Nick.

Nick reached over, careful not to move the bodies, and gingerly pulled out the object in the kid's hand.

"Holy…"he trailed off, shining his own Maglite on the substance. "This looks like pure crystal meth," he let out a low whistle.

"This guy a dealer?" Warrick asked motioning with his head toward the older victim.

"Could be," Nick nodded as David Phillips arrived on the scene.

"Hey guys," he said quickly getting down to business.

"Hey Super Dave," Nick nodded from his crouched position. He slowly moved out of the way allowing the assistant coroner to do his job. He and Warrick stood to the side, beginning the process of collecting evidence around the bodies.

"There's no ID on the victim," David said patting down the first victim. "He looks to be around fifteen. Looks like he took three gunshots to the back," he continued taking the boy's liver temp. "I'd say he's been dead around three hours. I'll know more once I get them to the morgue."

"Hey, Dave, can you roll the body?" Warrick asked shining his light around the victim. He'd seen something sticking out from under the body.

"Sure," he nodded.

"It's what I thought," the CSI nodded bending to collect the evidence of interest.

"What have you got?" Nick asked.

"A 38 Special." Warrick held up the weapon. "The chamber's empty."

"What kind of kid packs an empty gun to a drug deal?" Nick asked.

"He fired back," Warrick said as the group of bystanders quickly became unsettled. There was shouting crying coming from the group as the mothers of the teenage victims arrived on the scene.

"_¡Oh mi dios¡Mi bebé¡No mi bebé!" _

" _Usted bastardos. Usted no cuida sobre los hispanos. ¡Usted conseguirá el tuyo!"_

Nick quickly turned to take in the commotion as detective Vega tried to make his way toward the near mob scene. The man looked small in comparison.

"_Tenemos todo bajo control. Por favor, llanura tranquila_," the detective began to say, his best attempt at calming the grieving mothers.

"What are they saying?" Warrick asked trying his best to work the scene.

"Vega's assuring them we have it under control."

"Yeah, what are _they_ saying?"

"Ah, that's a little more animated. That lady must be the mother of a victim. That guy?" Nick pointed discretely toward a rather large man, most likely a relative of the victims. "He's saying we don't care about the Hispanics."

"Yeah, I've heard that before," Warrick nodded as David zipped up the last body bag and took the body to the awaiting vehicle.

"Oh, Super Dave, any bullets…"Nick trailed off.

"You got it," the slightly awkward man nodded sidestepping the blood pools and crossing under the tape.

"Let's get to work," Warrick sighed picking up his field kit.

Nick nodded, taking his own kit and working in the opposite direction of his partner.

Bullets, he'd only seen that many bullets in one other crime scene. It was something he'd hoped to never run across again.

"You said the kid was packing a 38 Special?" Nick asked as he looked at a bullet in his forceps.

"Yeah," Warrick said.

"Any of the other's packing?"

"Uh, nothing was on them," he shook his head. Why?"

"I got a 22 caliber casing here…" he trailed off searching the ground around him. "Hang on a second. Check this out," he said holding up another gun.

Nick resumed his search and gather in silence. His Maglite was of little help as the night wore on. The darkness growing, working against them as clouds slowly rolled in covering the moon.

Vega busied himself working to get information from the people on the scene. It seemed a futile attempt, as Nick noted the fear in many of their eyes. Gang violence was one the main causes of unsolved cases in Vegas. People were too scared to speak up, or they were killed before they could.

Nearly two hours had passed and the CSIs were only about a quarter of the way through the messy crime scene. Nick slowly stood, rolling his neck, stretching his muscles. He looked over at Warrick. He was busy with his own set of shell casing. Vega was still working the crowd, hoping to get information from possible witnesses. No one noticed the car slowly rolling onto the scene.

The quiet air was suddenly filled with the horrifying blast of gunfire. Screams filled the air. His senses were on high alert, as Nick hit the ground, doing his best to take in his surroundings. He stole a glance to Warrick, who also lay on the ground, his eyes wide, taking in all he could. The beat cops, quickly pulled out their weapons, firing back at the vehicle.

_What the hell?_

Things were in slow motion as his eyes fell on the crowd. Many of the passersby had scattered, some had taken refuge on the ground. Nick quickly scanned the crowd for the detective. Finding the man, assured he was okay, his eyes quickly followed the direction of the sound of the gunfire. His eyes fell upon the car from which the eruption of silence had occurred as it quickly sped off down the road, away from the scene.

"Nicky!" Warrick called out from his position a few feet away. "Are you okay?"

"Vega!" Nick called out with a nod to his partner. "Vega!" he called again not getting a response. "Damn it!" he said getting to his feet, jogging over to the detective. "Vega," he said now on top of the detective. He too lay face down on the ground, as the CSIs had done when all hell had broken loose. "Vega," he said kneeling beside the man. There was no response.

Nick slowly touched the man's shoulder, rolling him over onto his back.

"We need an ambulance!" Nick called as Warrick quickly joined him across the grounds. "He's hit," he said placing a hand on the single gunshot wound to the detectives shoulder.

The man moaned in pain, slowly coming to as Nick put pressure on the profusely bleeding wound.

"Patrol, request immediate backup. Immediate backup. Officer down. I need emergency medical assistance!" he said into his radio.

"Hang in there man," Nick said maintaining pressure on the man's wound.

* * *

The CSIs stood silent, watching the ambulance roll away, the red and white lights flashing, filling the dark with the eerie glow. Chills traveled the length of Warrick's spine, his mind taking him back to the summer before, and further even to years ago.

"Guess we better finish this up," Nick spoke up slowly, the ambulance now out of their line of sight as it turned the corner.

"Yeah," Warrick nodded turning to the scene once more. "Hey, take a look at this," he said motioning Nick to follow him. "I found this just before hell's fury."

"What have you got?"

"A bandana," he held up the piece of fabric. "I found a couple hairs in it, the follicular tag still attached to one of them. There's also a blood stain on it."

"Could be a calling card," Nick offered a bag for Warrick to place the evidence.

"A calling card? What like the punks' are letting us know who did this?"

"They do it all the time," Nick nodded. "Look at the color."

"North Carolina blue."

"The Rollin' 60's use this color as their calling card," Nick nodded.

"Could have picked a better color," Warrick smirked as Nick placed the bagged evidence in his field kit. "Man, I hate the Tar Heels."

"Yeah, well I'm not so sure it has to do with the Southeastern Conference, man," Nick smiled. "I was noticing the community center. Check out all the tags on the building."

"RSC, R60's, Rich Rollin' 60's," Warrick read off taking in the spray paint covered building.

"The gang must run the neighborhood. They're all over the place."

"So you're thinking this is more than a drug deal gone bad," Warrick said his hands on his hips.

"I've heard the 60's are deep into the Mexican drug cartel, and I mean _deep_," Nick nodded.

"Damn," Warrick sighed turning his back on the building to survey the evidence of the ground war that had recently taken place. "So, what's next?"

"I'll work on the blood evidence," Nick sighed stopping to change his gloves. He stopped abruptly, taking in the sight of his blood covered hands.

"Hey, man, he's gonna be fine," Warrick said noticing his partner's hesitation. "It was a through and through. He'll be sore for a while, but he'll be fine, bro."

"Yeah," Nick nodded taking off his gloves placing them in their own evidence bag. "Let's get this done," he said snapping on a clean pair and walking toward the epicenter of the scene.

The blood pool was almost massive. The three victims must have bled out as they waited for help. Help that didn't come.

The Hispanic population of Vegas was growing. It was quite possibly the fastest growing population of the town. The accusations that the police didn't care about the Hispanic community were not unheard of. Many times such comments went in one ear and out the other.

"Hey guys, you want to tell me what's going on?" Detective Cavaliere asked walking across the scene.

"Detective, watch where you're walking," Nick shook his head pointing out the blood he was about to walk through. "We're gonna be a while," he said his attention back on the blood pool in front of him.

"Have you talked to the witnesses?" Warrick asked continuing his work collecting shell casings and bullets.

"Just finished that up. Looks like Vega got a good start, and the witnesses that were left took a dive and ran off once they heard gunfire."

"Not surprising," Nick said looking at the now slim crowd of onlookers.

"Did anyone get a look at the vehicle?" the detective asked.

"A black Buick, tinted windows," Nick said his attention focused on the job at hand.

"It was pretty dark. You sure it was black?"

The CSI cast a glare up at the detective. Taking the hint, the detective silently wrote down the information. The two never had really gotten along. The last time they'd worked closely, they'd nearly torn each other apart. It was clear the two would prefer working with anyone but each other.

"Did you happen to get a plate number?" he asked doing his best to keep his tone cordial.

"355 JDC," Nick replied matter-of-factly.

"You sure about that. I mean, there was a lot going on."

"Look man, I got the plate. It's right," Nick stood now, ready to take on the detective.

"Look Stokes!" the detective said pointing a finger to the CSI's chest, "I don't need you getting in my face. We're all upset about Vega but it's no reason for you be an ass about me doing my job."

"You doing your job?" the CSI asked incredulously, "That'd be a first," he smirked.

"Hey guys," Warrick stood quickly intervening the onset of a rumble between the two. "We're all on the same team here. Let's finishing processing the scene and then get out of here, huh?"

Nick slowly returned to his task, the detective walking to his vehicle to radio in the license plate numbers.

"Damn, Nicky, use some of that anger for a good cause. We won't get anywhere fighting with that guy," Warrick motioned toward the retreating form of Cavaliere.

The CSIs worked again in silence finishing their job and gathering their supplies.

It had been almost four hours since they'd arrived on the scene.

Exhausted, but just in the beginning of their job, the CSIs returned to their vehicle. Loading the evidence in the back, they silently climbed into the front and quietly rode back to the lab.

"I'll get this stuff to DNA," Nick said grabbing up the bandana and hair evidence. "Maybe we can get a profile on a suspect."

"Yeah, I'll drop this stuff off with Bobby and I'll meet you in the layout room."

The CSIs went their own ways once inside the lab.

Tempers were flaring, answers were far reaching and Nick was getting a headache. The continued buzzing of his cell phone, the constant beckoning of his mother not helping matters at all.


	5. Chapter 4

**Note**: thanks for the reviews...comments...they're very helpful. So, we're making progress in this chapter. Not quite to the present...but getting closer. Patients! We'll get there! So...enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Four

* * *

Warrick sat silently in the layout room, working hard to concentrate on the evidence before him, yet sidetracked by the constant pacing of the man in the hallway. His voice was muffled, so he couldn't make out who Nick was talking to, or what he was saying. He could tell, though, by the expression on his face it was a conversation the man would rather not be having. It took restraint on his part to stay rooted to the stool on which he was sitting. He wanted more than anything at that moment, to walk over and listen in, to support his friend. But, he didn't. In part because he knew how Nick relished in his personal space and in part because, quite frankly, the glare in Nick's eye was enough to even scare Ecklie.

He again, trained his eye on the crime scene sketch in front of him. The backlit table almost burning his eyes, he rubbed them hoping to work out the exhaustion plaguing him.

"Damn it! Get off my case!"

He looked up quickly as he heard Nick say the harsh words into his phone.

"Yeah…uh, huh…fine…" he heard Nick say, his tone clearly full of frustration. That frustration bordered on anger, as Nick stopped his pacing, his hand on his hip. "Look, I can't talk now; I'm in the middle of a case. I'll call you later. Why'd I call? To get you off my damn back, that's why. I can't get into that now. Jesus," he said lowering his voice, now aware of the stares thrown his way. "Where do you think I am? I'm at the lab. Look, I've got to go. Yeah, whatever," he said flipping his phone closed with a little more force than necessary.

"Everything cool?" he asked throwing his partner a look of question more than concern as Nick entered the evidence room.

"Fine," he shook his head. The word caused Warrick to flinch; it had become stronger than any four-letter word Nick could throw at him.

"Finally talk to your mom?"

"Yeah, if that's what you want to call it. The woman won't leave me alone."

"Sounds like she's doing her job," the tall CSI smirked as he leaned over the table.

"This the crime scene sketch?" Nick asked ready to change the subject.

"Yeah, check it out," he started in reply pulling out several sketches, "this is the primary scene, right? I've plotted out the shell casings and bullets I found around the first victim and the second. It's clear the primary target was the older guy, Jorge Valdez."

"Valdez…"Nick thought on the name.

"What?"

"I know that name. Did he have a record?"

"Yeah, I ran his prints through AFIS, got an immediate hit. He's been busted on possession, selling, carrying a concealed weapon, you name it."

"Wait a second," Nick said pulling out his phone. "I know a guy in the gang unit."

"You think this guy's a banger?"

"Kent, man, it's Nick," he nodded in response as he spoke into his phone. "Jorge Valdez, what do you know about him?"

He was silent for a couple minutes, taking in the information, as Warrick again turned his gaze to the sketches. He couldn't help but think something was off about the scene.

"Alright, thanks man," Nick said a smile edging onto his face. "It's what I was thinking. Valdez is a major player in the 83 Gangster Crips."

"Say that again?"

"The 83 Gangster Crips are the rival gang of the Rollin' 60's. Kent Jameson in the gang unit knows Valdez as well as he knows his own son."

"So…" Warrick started, processing the information.

"If Valdez was a kingpin in the 83, you know what that means?" Nick offered.

"We're in the middle of a turf war," Warrick nodded. "What do you make of this?" he asked pointing to the papers in front of him.

Nick leaned over, bringing the paper into view.

"What am I looking at?"

"Look at the blood pattern, check out that void."

"I don't know," Nick shrugged, "could be anything."

"Hey guys," Bobby Dawson smiled joining the CSIs.

"Bobby D," Nick grinned greeting the ballistics lab tech. "Tell me you have some good news for us."

"Well, yes and no," he smiled taking a seat across the table. "The bullets Doc pulled from your first victim?"

"Jorge Valdez," Nick nodded.

"All from the same gun. Unusual for a ground war," the tech raised a brow.

"Yeah, I'd say," Warrick smirked reaching across the table for the lab report as it was slid across the table.

"Came from a semi-automatic, Colt revolver."

"Damn, goin' old school," Warrick stretched his back muscles.

"I ran the bullets through IBIS, got a hit. The same gun was used in a drive by six months ago, and a robbery last year. Both cases are still unsolved."

"Nice work Bobby," Nick said taking the lab report.

"The bullets from the second victim," he continued, "came from a .38 Special."

"We found a Special on the scene," Warrick nodded. "Was the kid shot with his own gun?"

"Hey, that's your job," the tech shook his head. "I just give you the bullet," he smiled, the CSIs exchanging their own amused looks. "I can tell you though, the Special you found on the scene, is the gun that killed your second vic."

"Any hits in IBIS?" Nick asked.

"Still running it. There are more Specials registered in Vegas than you think."

"And the third vic?" Warrick asked.

"There was a third?" Obviously this news took the lab tech by surprise.

"Yeah," Nick nodded.

"I only got the bullets from two." The expression on the southern gentleman's face was almost pure panic. Had he missed something? Had he been given bullets from a third victim? Had he misplaced them?

"You're kidding me, right? Didn't you go to autopsy?" Nick asked Warrick slapping the man lightly on the shoulder.

"Yeah, Doc wasn't done posting. He told me to come back in an hour."

"When was that?" Bobby asked now slightly amused at the befuddlement of the scientists in front of him, his slight panic attack now gone by the wayside.

"Uh, almost an hour now," he said looking at his watch standing to leave the room.

"Hey, you guys get me a bullet, I'll tell ya what I can," Bobby called after the retreating CSIs.

* * *

"Stokes! Brown!" Detective Cavaliere called out as the two made their way toward the morgue.

It was morning, now, as the CSIs stood at the crux of the lab complex. The glass entrance illumined from outside by the morning sun.

"Damn," Nick froze in his place, ready to take on the detective. Warrick noticed the tension mount in his partner's face immediately. What had put the man on edge?

"Hey, go on, I'll catch up," he said allowing Nick to duck out. He wasn't sure he could handle any more hostility between the two. He knew they'd never really gotten along, and with Nick on edge more than usual Warrick didn't want to take any chances.

"What have you got so far?" the detective asked watching Nick make his way down the hall.

"Not a hell of a lot," Warrick sighed turning to face the squat detective.

"You're gonna have to do better than that. Come on Warrick."

"We've got photos of the crime scene. We've got preliminary ballistics reports, but we're a victim short."

"_What_? What do you _mean_ you're a victim short?" Warrick was beginning to see why Nick disliked the detective so much.

"Look we're working as fast as the labs can take us," he offered his hands up in resignation. "We've got bullets matched to two of the three victims. We've got reports matching the bullets to guns; we've only got one gun."

"So, we're looking for two more guns."

"Basically," Warrick nodded, "and one of those guns killed our third victim."

"Don't leave me hanging on this, Warrick. I know you and Stokes are buds."

"Now, don't go pullin' this personal shit out," the CSI said crossing his arms across his chest taking the defensive. His tone matched the expression of annoyance on his face. "Just because you and Nick don't get along…" he trailed off. "Look, I'm supposed to be at autopsy. When we know something, you'll know something," he glared now at detective leaving him standing in the hall.

* * *

"The bullets disintegrated on impact," Doc Robbins was saying as Warrick entered the morgue.

"What have we got?" Warrick asked joining the men.

"A lot of nothing," Nick sighed pulling down the breathing barrier over his mouth.

"You know, there was a case a couple years ago. A man used frozen hamburger to tip his bullets. When the bullet fragmented upon entering the body, the meat melted."

"Yeah, yeah," Nick nodded, "I remember the case. There was no evidence of the bullet inside the body. So, where does that leave us?" Nick asked looking now, over to Warrick.

"Looking for a third gun," Warrick sighed, resting his palms on top of the autopsy table.

* * *

A rock and a hard place.

It wasn't unfamiliar territory for either of them. That didn't make it any less frustrating, though. They'd been trained to find answers. And, so far in this case the answers were illusive. In fact, the answers just weren't there.

It was something Nick hated most. Unanswered questions were the primary reason for the extra strength Ibuprofen he'd just taken. Pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes shut tight; he sat on a stool staring at the evidence table. Unanswered questions were the reason he sat back in the layout room hours later, staring at photos from earlier that night.

Most of the time, this was one of his favorite places to work. It was one of the quietest rooms in the lab, on the far end of the hall away from the bustle of the DNA and Trace labs. But, tonight, regardless of the quiet, Nick's head was pounding. The light source under the layout table was only a source for more aggravation, his headache now threatening to become a migraine.

None of the man's frustrations had gone unnoticed by his partner. In fact, as Warrick headed down the hall from the DNA lab, he noticed the nearly defeated posture of the man in the evidence room. The man seemed to be taking to cases harder than usual more recently, and he didn't know why. That in itself was frustrating, but even more frustrating was the fact that he couldn't do much, if anything, about it.

"I got DNA results off the hairs from the bandana we recovered from the scene," he said entering the quiet of the room. The tension extracted from the man in front of him was thick enough to be cut by a knife.

Nick nodded in response. His expression tight, unreadable.

"Ran the profile through CODIS, came back Raphael Dominguez."

"He's got a record," Nick said taking the file handed him by Warrick.

"I'd say. He's got a wrap sheet longer than a Catholic priest's sermon."

"You thinkin' he could be our suspect?"

"One of them anyway," Warrick nodded. "I've got Cavaliere picking him up now."

"That should make him happy," Nick smirked. "What about the blood on the bandana?"

"Ah, DNA's still working on it. What have you got?" he asked.

"Other than a headache? Take a look," he said spreading out the photos, a blueprint of the community center park his primary focal point. "We collected bullets from this area here," he circled one area with a blue felt tipped pen, "this area," he circled another using a red felt tipped pen, "and this area," he used a green pen to circle the third area. He stood now, displaying the detailed photos of each area.

"Right," Warrick nodded. "We recovered the .38 Special in the blue area, and a Colt Revolver from the red area. You think there should be a gun in the orange area?"

"Three victims, two guns," Nick shrugged. "It'd make sense if the other two victims were packing, the third would be too."

"Well, I can tell you one thing. I'm not going back to the scene tonight. Cavaliere's bringing in our suspect, now. Some time in lock-up never hurt anybody," he said leaning back against the layout table.

* * *

Grissom had been in the lab most of the night. His time in the field had been rather brief. He'd not noticed when Nick and Warrick returned to the lab, but noticed now as the two discussed their case in the layout room. From an outsider's perspective they looked frustrated. They looked tired.

He was never one to meddle. He hated being thought of as a boss who didn't care. He almost hated more, though, being thought of as a boss who cared too much. It was a rough line for him to draw, knowing when to stick his nose in and when to keep it out.

His keen power of observation, however, never failed him, and now he was observing two men at their ropes end. Working against his own judgment, he tucked the file currently opened in his hand under his arm and made the trek down the hall.

"Grissom, I wasn't finished," Catherine said. He'd nearly forgotten he was in the middle of a conversation with the woman working the case with him.

"I'll be right back," he said over his shoulder throwing what he hoped was a look of apology. "How's it going guys?" he asked standing now in the doorway of the evidence room.

Nick and Warrick looked up from their photos. The look on their faces told the whole story.

"Hey Griss, what do you know about the Hispanic gangs in North Vegas?" Warrick asked.

The man pursed his lips, thinking, digging back through the vastness of information floating in his brain.

"Not much," he shrugged, shaking his head, his brow raised in the Grissom confession. "There's a guy in PD…" he trailed off.

"Kent Jameson," Nick nodded.

"Good, so you know him," he smiled his half cocked grin.

"You guys look beat. Go home," he said.

"Oh, I'm all over that," Warrick stood straight now.

"Yeah, I'm right behind ya," Nick nodded gathering the photos and placing them in the file folder. "Come in early tomorrow. We can talk with Dominguez then what?"

"Head back to the scene?" Warrick raised his brow following Nick to evidence lock-up.

"Yeah, okay," he nodded.

"Later, man."

"Later," he waved his head checking his evidence back into the evidence log.

Damn he was tired, and the Ibuprofen wasn't helping the pounding in his head. He grinned to himself thinking of the quiet that awaited him at home. Walking out of the lab, and to his truck he was almost giddy in anticipation.

It was all crushed as he heard the shrill ring of his cell phone.

_Mom._

Switching the phone off and throwing it in his passenger seat, he smiled at his small victory. Home was his new favorite place.


	6. Chapter 5

**Note:** Thanks again for the reviews...and here's the next chapter! We're almost there...hang on!

* * *

Chapter Five

* * *

He'd hoped sleep would have gotten rid of the constant ringing in his ears, but as he slowly emerged from the state of unconsciousness, the ringing became more prominent. It took him several minutes to realize, the ringing he was hearing, though very much drilled into the inner sanctums of his brain, was also very much real as he focused on the ringing phone beside his bed.

Clumsily reaching for the ringing device, he managed to push the right button to open the line. "'Lo?" he mumbled groggily into the handset as he picked up the extension. Still unable to make his eyes focus, he kept them closed.

What time was it? Was he late meeting Warrick?

Forcing an eye open, he brought the numbers of his clock into view.

2:30 p.m.

He wasn't late…yet.

_"Nicky, honey, did I wake you?"_

"Hey, Mom," he sighed rolling now onto his back. "Nah, I was awake."

_"Look, about earlier…"_ she started hesitantly.

The meekness in her voice nearly crushed him as he remembered the last time he'd spoken to his mother. It was a quick wake up call.

The woman had been nothing but supportive of him. When he'd decided to move to Vegas, she was the one pushing him to take the job, despite what his father had wanted for him. She was the emotional rock of the family.

Last summer, watching her in the hospital after he'd been pulled from the ground, he admired the strength he'd witnessed in her. She was his strong hold. When she'd stuck around Vegas after his dad had gone back to Texas, he was actually relieved. The hole he felt when she'd gone back to Texas was huge. So often she was a brick wall, unwavering in her strength. So many times, she was the one keeping _him_ together emotionally. He never thought he'd be the cause for the crumbling of her seemingly unbreakable emotional wall.

"No, Mom," he said taking a deep breath. "Look, I'm sorry about that. I was stressed, I was tired. I'm on a big case, and…"he trailed off now, sitting up swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

"_I know, I know."_

"I shouldn't have spoken to ya like that. I'm sorry."

Glancing at his clock again, he cringed at the brush off he knew he was about to give the woman again. He couldn't help it, though. If he didn't get moving, he'd be late.

"_I'm just worried about you, that's all,"_ she managed to say. He could almost hear the tears in her voice. He flopped back on the mattress, unable to make himself say the words he knew needed to be said to get him off the phone. "_You work so hard."_

"Yeah, well it kinda comes with the job, Mom," he sighed, his eyes again roaming to the digital reminder that time was passing. "You know what it's like. Will it make you feel better if I tell you things are okay?" he asked hoping to appease the worried woman. He could hear her suppress her sniffling. He smiled a little imagining the handkerchief in her hand as she dabbed at the corner of her eye. If ever there was a Southern Belle. "I'm okay," he said again.

"_Are you sure?"_

"Honest, Mom," he nodded sitting back up. "Things are fine. Look, I really can't talk now. I've gotta get moving. I'm meeting Warrick early to interview a suspect."

"_Take care of yourself, Nicky."_

"You have my word."

"_I love you, honey."_

"I love you, too," he smiled hanging up the phone.

He still had plenty of time to get ready without rushing too much. He hoped traffic would be light. He really didn't feel like pushing his luck today.

* * *

"Hey, I just got off the phone with Vega," Nick said walking into the lab, meeting Warrick in the break room. "He's home already. He'll be out a week or two." He poured himself a cup of coffee.

"Yeah, I heard," Warrick nodded following the actions of his partner. He had to admit, Nick looked better, rested. The weight that was apparent yesterday seemed to have eased off his shoulders. "What's up with you?" he asked turning to face the man as he watched him move to the table.

"What?"

"Something's up," he shrugged.

"How's Tina," he shrugged.

Was he avoiding the conversation?

"Ah, she's fine."

"She over the other day?" he asked his eyes moving to the file in front of him.

"Oh yeah, we're cool. Hey, man, seriously, what's up?" he asked hoping to get back to the discussion he wanted to have.

"Nothing, why?"

"How's your mom?"

"Oh… that," he leaned back in his seat. "She's fine."

"Yeah, picture that," he smirked at the pat answer.

"Seriously, man. She called me again, this morning. _Picture that,_" Nick smiled his focus now back on the other man. "We talked. Things are good," he nodded.

"Good," Warrick nodded. "Oh, before I forget, our blood results are back from DNA. I was waiting for you to get here."

Nick nodded standing and leading the way down the hall.

"Cavaliere in?" Nick asked.

"Yeah, got here before me. You know how the man is when there's a suspect to interrogate."

"Hey, hey, we interview our suspects."

"Heh, tell that to the detective," Warrick smirked entering the bustling DNA lab.

"Hey Warrick…Nick," David Hodges seemed to almost combust in exuberance.

"Hodges," Nick cast a suspicious glance at the lab tech. Something about the man always put him on edge. _The kiss ass,_ he thought.

"What are you doing in DNA?" Warrick asked leaning against the counter, his eyes following the DNA lab tech. "And...you're new," Warrick said now catching the new tech's attention.

"I'm just welcoming Dana, here," the trace lab tech smiled.

"_Dana_…you got DNA back on our bloody bandana?" Nick offered a cordial grin, hoping to get down to business. He didn't want to keep their suspect waiting any longer. God knew Cavalier was probably busting a gut just waiting for them, if indeed he did wait.

"Oh, that. Yeah," she nodded, turning a quick 360, doing her best to make sense of the chaos that seemed to surround her. "It's here somewhere," she shuffled things around. She seemed…well, frazzled just didn't seem to cut it. It was way more than frazzled.

"This it?" Warrick asked holding up a file, the bagged bandana lying on top of the folder.

"Uh, yeah," she nodded, a sheepish grin spreading across her face.

"Thanks," Nick nodded, taking the bagged evidence while Warrick read over the file.

"Slam dunk!" the CSI grinned as Nick tried to read over his shoulder.

"No such thing. What have we got?"

"DNA's a match to Raphael Dominguez."

"Well, that places him at the crime scene. It doesn't mean he did anything," Nick shrugged.

"But, it brings us closer. And closer is better than where we were yesterday," Warrick shrugged leading the way to PD.

* * *

"Come on, you've got assault and battery, carrying a concealed weapon, resisting arrest, not to mention the whole slue of charges of drug possession on your record," Cavaliere was saying. He stood merely inches away from suspect.

The suspect…was no more than a kid. He couldn't have been any older than twenty, maybe twenty-one.

"Look, I don't know what you're talking about. I was visiting my grandmother all day yesterday," the boy slouched in his chair. He was not easily intimidated by the luring detective.

"And let me guess, she's bedridden," Cavaliere smirked.

"As a matter of fact…"

"Bullshit! You were at the community center. You saw someone you didn't like, someone encroaching on your turf, so you thought you'd take care of it. Maybe have your hombres help you out?"

"_¡Vaya infierno!"_ Dominquez glared back at the man standing now, looking the detective in the eye.

"Hey! C_ompinche_, _yo hablo espanol_," the detective glared, pushing the kid back into his seat.

"Mr. Dominguez," Nick chimed in, hoping to impede on Cavaliere's pending gasket rupture, "if you weren't at the community center yesterday, than maybe you can tell us how a bandana with your blood, and hair, was found there."

"_No se_," he shrugged.

"Would you mind holding out your hands, palms down?" Warrick asked standing across the table from him.

Surprisingly, he complied stretching his arms out over the top of the table. The hard stare, however, did not go unnoticed.

Slowly, deliberately, Warrick tested the hands for GSR. Applying the adhesive to the man's hands, he carefully took in the finding. The downcast glance he passed to Nick also didn't go unnoticed.

"Detective," Warrick motioned leading the other men into the hallway. "We can't hold him," he said as they convened outside the closed door to interrogation.

"What the hell do you mean?" Cavaliere asked, anger not only evident on his face but also in his voice. The shorter man could really pack a punch with a simple glare.

"We've got no evidence this kid was involved in the shootings," the CSI shook his head. "There's no GSR on his hands. We've got nothing to hold him on."

"And the bandana?"

"Circumstantial evidence at best," Nick shrugged.

"Circumstantial my ass," the detective smirked. "You guys better get me something I can work with," he snarled turning on his heels and re-entering the interrogation room. Upon saying a few words to the officer inside, the detective made his way back to the hall. "Get me evidence, damn it," he glared pushing past the CSIs and heading back to the bullpen.

There were very few people in the world that knew how to get under Nick's skin: child molesters, killers with no remorse, cowards, and Cavaliere. Something about the man made him seethe. Irritation was rarely an emotion he showed while on the job; anger an even more rare emotion. Around Cavaliere, though, it seemed to be the only emotions the man felt.

He stood there in the hall, watching the detective disappear behind the doors leading to the central crux of PD. He had a good three inches on the detective, yet somehow he always managed to feel smaller in his presence. It was always a fight to see who had the bigger neck.

"_Hasta luego, muchacho_," Dominguez smirked as he casually brushed passed the CSIs.

"_Pivote Central,_" Nick said watching the Hispanic man stop abruptly in his tracks. He stood there now, his back to the CSIs. "_¿El es lo que le llaman, correcto?_"

Slowly, Dominguez turned to face the man, a glint in his eye.

"_No gustan ochenta tres. Sabemos qué sucedió,"_ Nick continued holding the gaze of the man as he leaned against the wall.

Warrick stood by, unsure of how to process what was happening. _Damn_, he wished he'd paid better attention in his college Spanish classes.

"_Ningún se preocupa, hombre. No consiga de mi manera_," he smiled slyly as he turned and walked out of the station.

"Man, what was _that_?" Warrick asked following Nick back to the lab. "What'd you say to him?" he asked.

"King Pin, that's what they call the leader of the 60's. _Pivote Central_," he said walking into the locker room. _Ochenta tres_ is the 83s. Valdez, our vic? He's an 83."

"We already know this is a turf war," Warrick nodded, trying to follow where Nick was going. "What'd you say after that? You had that look, bro. I hate that look," he shook his head.

Nonchalantly Nick shrugged his shoulders.

"Okay, then…what'd _he_ say?"

"He told me not to get in his way," he looked over at his partner. There was a determination in his eye. He knew that look. It was a look that couldn't be stopped. Nick was on a mission.

"Well, Cavaliere wants evidence. We heading to the scene or what?" he asked his partner. He watched as Nick checked his service pistol and placed in his hip holster. He followed suit, knowing a road trip was soon following.

"Yeah," he nodded in response. "Let's do it."

The day had become overcast. For early February, it was unusually warm…and humid. The clouds did very little to block the sun, though, and the temperature was near the 70 degree mark. The clouds to the west, though, threatened to bring rain.

The ominous darkness lingering just over the horizon was just enough to raise the awareness of the CSIs.

"We'd better make this quick," Warrick said sliding into the passenger seat, "if those clouds have anything to say."

"Yeah, our crime scene's gonna be washed away," Nick nodded, pulling on his sunglasses and turning the key in the ignition.

Traffic was relatively light. The rush hour still an hour off, the drive passed the Strip and onto the interstate was rather easy.

Forty-five minutes later, Nick pulled the Denali into the parking lot of the Buena Vista Springs Community Center. Unbuckling his seatbelt, he climbed down from the vehicle.

"Let's do this," he nodded meeting Warrick at the front of the car.

"Yeah, let's get-r-done."


	7. Chapter 6

**Note:** so, i guess this is the much anticipated chapter!i do hope it was worth the wait. please any comments on how this goes over...share them! I'd really appreciate some feedback on this! as always...thanks a ton for the reviews from the last chapter. I'm gonna TRY to stick to this schedule of posting...it seems to be working well so far...  
well...enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Six

* * *

"What the hell kept you, man?" Warrick asked his impatience bordering on anger as the police officer finally rolled onto the scene. He'd been standing with Nick nearly ten minutes waiting for the black and white to show up. Lord knew if Brass, or hell even Grissom, found out they had returned to a scene minus the backup of "real cop" there'd be hell to pay from them. Officer Sparks was the cop they received into their company.

Nick laughed to himself at the antsy ness of the man beside him. Usually Warrick was the one taking things in stride. He had to laugh at the irony of the situation.

"Sorry, guys. Traffic was murder," the officer responded a smug look on his face. "So what are we doing out here anyway?" he asked his hand resting on his hip holstered weapon.

"Well, _we're_ doing our jobs. It'd be nice if you could do yours and just stick around a while," Warrick smirked as he and Nick exchanged glances.

"Yeah, man we didn't pull you away from anything too exciting I hope," Nick smiled a little. "I know how you guys like to be in on the action."

"Oh yeah," the uniform smirked, sarcasm thick in his voice, "I was the first on the scene of a double homicide, but I dropped it all to baby sit you guys."

"Keep your pants on Sparky," Warrick shook his head, "we shouldn't be here long."

"So, you wanna tell me why you're on edge?" Nick asked as the CSIs walked away from parking lot.

"Nah," Warrick shook his head. "This case isn't two days old and it's driving me crazy."

"Okay, so we need a gun, right?" Nick nodded a half cocked grin on his face in understanding Warrick's frustration.

"And some bullets to match that gun," the man nodded.

"Okay, so the orange area off the sketch starts about here," Nick said standing about 50 feet from the community center. "This is where the third victim was laying."

"Hey, did you know Ecklie sent in a grant to get the lab a new digital crime scene scanner?" Warrick asked commencing his search of the surround area.

"The man finally broke, huh?" Nick smirked. "You know the time I used it last year, man, that puppy was sweet."

"Yeah, I remember, and after the company refused to give the lab one for free," Warrick laughed as he circled the scene. His search so far seemed to be in vain. "You know the crime lab in New York has one? How is it _they_ get one, yet the second best crime lab in the _country_ can't afford one?"

"Oh, it's not the fact the lab can't afford one, Ecklie just loves bustin' our chops more than actually working to solve crimes. You know that. The man's cheap. He wouldn't even help fund Archie's trip last summer."

"Well, you know Star Trek conventions aren't sanctioned as part of the lab sponsored functions."

The A/V tech was a pretty cool guy, regardless of his taste in television or movies. The man knew what he was doing and could beat either of them in a go of Madden with his hands tied behind his back.

"Hey, are you guys almost done?" Sparks called from the perimeter. "It looks like rain."

"Hey, Sparky!" Warrick called out. "What'd I tell you?" he glared at the uniformed man. "Damn!"

So far, their search had been ineffective. Their first process of the scene had allowed them to gather everything that seemed pertinent to the case. Having collected over fifty shell casings and bullets, they were left with practically nothing to collect now.

"Whoa, watch your step," Nick said holding a hand out to stop Warrick in his tracks.

"What?" he asked looking down. The object of concern was held in the beam of Nick's mini-Maglite. He was about to step on the one thing they'd been looking for.

"A shell casing," Nick grinned crouching to pluck the small metal jacket from the ground. "What do you know? This came from a 44 Magnum."

"A 44 Magnum? They goin' old Western on us?" Warrick asked crouching to supply the man with an empty bindle for the piece of evidence.

The two stood, slowly making their way further from the parking lot, stopping periodically to examine the ground a bit closer. They'd been on the scene for nearly an hour and still hadn't collected their primary reason for returning to the scene. The 44 Magnum was still MIA.

"Maybe it's not here. Maybe the punks took the gun with them," Warrick sighed standing. They were now on the farthest point from the parking lot.

"Hey, bro, check it out," Nick said pointing to the far end of the parking lot, behind Sparks, as they turned to return to their vehicle.

"What?"

"Those guys," he motioned inconspicuously with his head. A group of six or seven African Americans were walking their way. "We better get out of here," he said.

"What?"

"They're 83s, man," Nick explained. The last thing he wanted was the man, his friend, to think he was guilty of racial profiling. It was anything but. "In this neighborhood it's trouble waiting to happen."

"I know you know about this stuff, man, but you can tell just by looking at them?"

"Yeah, check out their clothes. They're all wearing some sort of red."

"Shit," Warrick said looking off in the direction opposite of the impeding gang. "Speaking of trouble," he pointed. A group of 60's was coming their way from the opposite direction. He clearly recognized Raphael Dominguez in the midst of the group. He'd made it back into circulation rather quickly.

"Damn, we're in trouble," Nick said, his jaw clenched. He knew the gang's histories. They'd been in the midst of one of the worst rivalries this side of the Mississippi since the mid 60's. Now, he and Warrick were caught in the middle of a inevitable ground war. He watched as the 83s came up to the parking lot. Were they seriously stupid enough to taunt an armed cop?

Slowly, Nick turned to take in the location of the group of 60s. They were still a small distance off. They'd yet to take notice of them or the 83s, but that was bound to change as Nick took his first steps toward their awaiting vehicle, their awaiting safe haven.

It all happened quicker than he'd anticipated. He'd heard the yelling, the words of warning, and the threats. These threats directed at Officer Sparks.

He then heard the taunting of the 83s as they quickly took notice of the rival gang. The harsh words ran together as racial epithets began ringing through his head. He heard the gunshots.

The gunshots.

"Nick!" Warrick called out, grabbing the man by the arm pulling him toward the ground. Everything was muffled, running together in a blur.

There was a flash to his left, as the storm clouds loomed closer, lightning bringing life to the distant sky.

They were running now to the side of the community center. Hopefully it would provide some sort of haven, some safety away from the war.

Stealing a glance around the corner, Nick noticed the 83s dispersing in the parking lot. Several took refuge behind the law enforcement vehicles that were parked there.

Officer Sparks.

He wasn't where Nick had last seen the man standing.

Nick's eyes scanned the parking lot, as gun fire rapidly filled the late afternoon air. The 60s clearly outnumbered the 83s.

"Shit!" he said, his breathing now coming in deep gulps as adrenaline pumped through his veins. "Sparks is down," he told Warrick who had already drawn his gun, ready to fire if necessary. It was clear these punks weren't afraid to tangle with the law.

Pulling out his phone, Nick quickly pushed the speed dial for PD.

"Patrol, this is Nick Stokes. We have an officer down, repeat an officer down. Need immediate back up…" he was cut off as he was pushed back against the wall of the building, his phone clattering to the ground, forgotten. The pain was almost immediate as he felt the warm rush of blood drain from his face.

"Shit," Warrick said quickly reaching around his partner firing in the direction of the ensuing gunfire. His shots were not in vain as he watched two goons take a bullet each.

Nick had been hit. Damn, Nick had been hit.

Stunned by the sudden pain, Nick raised his hand to feel the cause of concern and sudden rush of anger in his partner. Feeling his neck he found the wound to be little more than a graze. It hurt like hell, but he couldn't leave his partner fighting this war alone.

Things were moving in slow motion. The thundering explosions of gunfire were wreaking havoc on his ears as he pulled out his own gun, ready to pick up the fight. The yell he heard from his partner though, was unmistakable, and pulled his attention from the chaos around him.

Warrick had been hit, and hit hard.

Moving even slower in time, Nick watched as the man beside him collapsed to the ground. The pain resulting from the flesh tearing wound clear on the man's face.

Where was he hit?

He didn't have time to think, to look after his friend, as Hell's fury was unleashed within the small neighborhood of North Vegas.

The war between gangs had now become a war with law enforcement. Unbeknownst to Nick, all the members of the 83 Crips were now laying, if not dead, mortally wounded on the asphalt of the parking lot. The fire he was experiencing now came from the remaining 60s. This group was out for blood. This was no longer a turf war, but a war of wills. It was all out survival of the fittest.

Nick raised his gun, firing several rounds, pleased by the sounds of painful yelps from the enemy. He'd have to remember to thank Grissom for making him retake his firearms qualification last year.

"_How'd you shoot?" Warrick asked as they processed a car in a convenient store parking lot. They'd been called that day to the scene of a supposed abduction._

"_Rusty. They say I have a flinch." _

"_You and I need to go practice some, huh?_

"_Yeah, when do we have the time to do that? If we're not processing a scene or working evidence, we're in court."_

"_Well, when they take your piece, you'll make time," Warrick had said with a nod._

_It was then that Grissom had approached him, reminded him he was in violation just carrying the weapon, never mind the fact that he was in the field. He'd returned to the lab that day and then taken his qualification over the next._

"_I take it you qualified at the range," Warrick had said as Nick returned to field work. ._

"_You take it right."_

"_What'd you shoot?"_

"_260 out of 300. 225's passing, which, I believe, was your high score," he joked with his friend._

Warrick!

He quickly stole a glance at the ailing man beside him. He was slowly making an attempt to move past the pain, to back up his partner. Checking his partner's condition had immediately proven to be the wrong choice.

Time stood still. Silence took the place of the deafening, thunderous roar of gunfire. The whistle of flying bullets was suddenly muted. White hot pain enveloped him, taking over every sense he possessed. There was nothing but excruciating pain.

His hands, unable to maintain their grasp on the weapon, dropped the gun to the ground. He was completely defenseless as he clutched his stomach. The pain was overpowering.

He was vaguely aware of the distant sounds of the approaching sirens. The call he'd made to patrol had been processed. The call hadn't gone unheard. Help was coming.

Hoping the encroaching threat of more law enforcement would send the gang running, Nick collapsed to the ground, the pain taking him deeper and deeper into a nearly blissful black abyss of nothingness. He longed to feel the floating sensation, the peaceful floating sensation he knew awaited him in the ensuing darkness.

* * *

"_¡Vayamos¡Vayamos!"_ Raphael Dominquez shouted running now toward the fallen CSIs. He'd managed to escape injury amid the violent chaos._ "¡Ásgalo¡Ásgalo¡Vayamos!"_ he said pointing to the nearly unconscious Nick. He quickly grabbed up Warrick who now lay unconscious. _"¡Prisa!"_

As fast as things had started, they were over. The remaining 60s, Raphael and his brother Miguel, were on the run, running toward the parked Denali in the parking lot.

"Keys!" Raphael demanded as he opened up the driver's side door. His brother was quickly scattering the equipment from the back of the mobile crime lab, the parking lot now littered with the haphazardly discarded technical equipment. Tossing his brother the keys, he climbed in the vehicle in time for the vehicle to peel out.

The unconscious CSIs lay bound in the now empty trunk space of the SUV. Help had come too late.


	8. Chapter 7

**Note:** i had every intention of getting this up last night...had it written out and everything...and then...the upload kept timing out on me...stupid website! anyway...here we are...  
sorry I didn't respond to the reviews from last chapter! I totally appreciate everyone of them...it means a lot to know you're enjoying this story! It's a fun one to write!  
okay...chapter seven!

* * *

Chapter Seven

* * *

No fear. It was how they lived. That plus a lot of anger could really carry a person a long way. It'd worked well for the 60s. It worked well for Miguel Dominguez. Until now, anyway.

Now, Miguel was feeling the one emotion of which he'd worked his whole life to be rid. He hated the feeling, the uneasiness of not knowing what came next. He cast an uneasy glance at his brother, hoping the fear he knew was in his stomach didn't register on his face. His brother always had the answers. The look he found on the older man's face, however, was of little comfort.

He'd never seen that look on his face before. It was a look of terror, of uncertainty. The constant nervous glances into the rearview mirror did little to appease the queasy feeling that continued to grow in his stomach. He knew his brother would kill him if he got sick. It was a sign of weakness.

He wasn't weak.

He'd worked for the honor he received within the gang. He was highly thought of among the brotherhood of the 60s. He'd proven himself worthy of wearing the colors, and he wore those colors proudly.

When he'd seen the 83s on their turf, in their neighborhood, he'd felt unbelievable rage. When he'd witnessed the killing of the cop, he'd never been angrier. He'd seen a lot of shit in his life, but to kill a cop…

When the other cops had returned fire, and his brothers had taken bullets, his rage was brought to new heights. His morality, his better judgment had gone out the window. Shooting them was the only thing to do.

Now, though, his mind was running away with him. His gut was telling him it'd been the wrong thing to do. His conscience was taking over and it terrified him.

Casting a quick glance to the back of the SUV he noticed a slight movement from the taller CSI.

"They're waking up," he said softly to his brother, whose attention was focused solely on the task of driving. "What are you gonna do?"

"What am _I_ gonna do?" he asked, anger full in his voice. "No way, bro, _we're_ in this together, and _we're_ gonna figure something out," Raphael shook his head as he threw a glare at his younger brother. "Come on man. You know how it is. _Comprende?_"

Miguel offered a slow nod of his head, his gaze returning to the passenger side window.

"They're gonna come looking for them... for us," he said slowly. "If that guy dies…"

"Look man…let me think," he raised a hand to wipe at his greased back hair. "We've got to ditch this car," he nodded, slowing the vehicle only slightly as he turned the corner returning to a residential area. "I know what we're gonna do."

* * *

Purgatory was very much reality to the CSIs.

Cold, it was the only thing Warrick felt as he slowly came out of the fog surrounding his brain. He wasn't sure how long he'd been out, but for now he really didn't care. The only thing he was concerned about was the overpowering coldness.

Working for a comfortable position was nearly impossible. A sense of dread began creeping over him. The overwhelming sense of helplessness mixed with fear and confusion were enough to cripple him, never mind the stabbing, nearly blinding pain in his left shoulder.

_Where was he?_

_Why was he tied up?_

_Where was Nick?_

Nick.

Moving to a slightly more natural position, he brought Nick into his line of sight. The limp form of his partner pulled at every emotional tie in his being. Anger and the overpowering need for vengeance mixed with every level of concern nearly tore him apart.

He'd seen his partner take one beating after the next. Witnessing the man take, not one, but two bullets was a whole new dimension of purgatory. In fact why not skip purgatory and just send him straight to Hell? The first hit hadn't been bad, a graze. The man hadn't even lost his footing. The second, however, had been gut-wrenching. The sight of his partner collapsing was the last thing he remembered. He only hoped, now, the wound wasn't nearly as serious as it had first appeared.

Thinking a bit more clearly, he slowly took in his surroundings. The Denali. They were in the back of their own car. Damn, these punks were either fearless, or incredibly stupid. And damn Ecklie for insisting the vehicles have nearly blacked out rear windows. Had they not been, he'd been able to look out and hopefully get an idea of their location.

What the hell happened to all their equipment?

Man, Ecklie was gonna be pissed.

The pain in his shoulder was…intense to put it mildly. Really the only thing he could focus on, beside the lifeless form of his partner. The pain only seemed to ease as he saw the slightest movement from Nick.

"Nicky," he managed to choke out. His voice gratefully had gone unheard by the drivers of the vehicle as he managed to keep it at the level of a hoarse whisper. "Hey man, come on."

He watched as Nick's eyes slowly fluttered open, pain quickly masking the man's face. His instincts telling him to curl into a ball, to close in on the source of the pain; he quickly withdrew into himself.

"Stay with me buddy," Warrick urged, his voice cracking with overwhelming concern.

"Damn," Nick whispered, his eyes shut tight.

"Look at me, Nick," he willed his partner to respond, to focus on him.

"Where are we?" the quickly ailing man asked weakly, recoiling at the pain brought on by the act of pushing out the words. Somehow he managed to lock and hold on to his partner's gaze.

"Shh, I don't know, man," he said.

The vehicle was slowing, coming to a stop. He heard the front doors open and shut as the front passengers exited the vehicle. Within seconds the back of the vehicle was filled with the dusky light of early evening, as the back doors were opened revealing their captors.

"Let's go!" Raphael demanded, a 9mm Glock pointed at the CSI. _"¡Ahora!"_

Slowly, Warrick complied with the demand. The punk was only a kid.

He grimaced, stepping into the growing darkness of the evening, the thunderstorm building above them, the sky ready to dump its contents.

They were back where they started.

They were back at the community center.

* * *

"What do you think happened here?" Sara asked, the fear in Grissom's eyes not going unnoticed. She'd really wished she'd missed that frightening look. The man was supposed to be a rock, unshaken when bad things happened. The fact that this seemingly unshakeable man was visibly concerned was very much a scary thing for her to see.

"I don't know," he shook his head scanning the debris of technology scattered around the parking lot. The missing Denali, the shot up squad car, pointed to the one thing he feared would happen, a ground war.

The ambulance had just left with the last victim. They were still waiting for the coroner to arrive so they could begin processing.

One officer killed, two CSIs missing. It was not a good scenario. It could very well be the worst possible scenario, and it scared Grissom to death.

Why had his guys been taken?

"I don't care what you have to do. Just find them!" Catherine was practically screaming into her phone.

Her phone.

"Catherine," Grissom motioned with his hand, "may I use your phone?"

Handing the man her phone, she watched as the man dialed a number seemingly very familiar to his fingers.

"Who are you calling?"

"Nick used his phone to call for back-up," he said listening for the ring tone. "Maybe we can track his cell location," the man shrugged holding the phone inches from his ear quickly making his way to the Denali of which they had used to arrive on the scene. "Archie, I need you to track a cell for me," he said into the phone, now resting between his ear and shoulder as he busied himself digging for…something, he wasn't sure what yet. "Nick's," he replied. "What!"

"What have you got?" Catherine asked causing the man to flinch in surprise. He'd been so focused on the task at hand, he'd not noticed the woman following him back the vehicle.

"The trace is leading him here," Grissom puckered his brow.

"What's Nick's number?" Catherine asked.

Grissom quickly hung up on Archie and dialed the number he knew almost as well as the lab number. Walking slowly, his ear to the phone, he surveyed the area, Catherine a few feet away from him doing the same.

"Grissom!" Greg called from across the yard. He was crouched down on the opposite side of the community center building. Something in the grass had caught his attention. "I've got a phone over here," he called.

Grissom took to jogging to the young CSIs location.

"It's Nick's," he said breathlessly, his shoulder's slumped in defeat. He took the phone, flipping it open to find the CSIs last made call. "His last call was to patrol," the supervisor noted, a glance directed at Catherine. "It was cut off 45 seconds into the call."

"There are shell casings all over the place," Greg said, his forceps gripping a metal casing. "A 9mm, standard issue," he said holding the evidence out for Grissom to inspect.

"Hey, Gil," Catherine said grimly, her eyes cast to the ground. "I've got a gun."

Crouching to investigate, he took the weapon into his hands.

"Magazine's empty," he commented, pulling back the slide to check the chamber. "So is the chamber."

Greg dutifully supplied the man a plastic bag. "I'll get it to Bobby," he nodded collecting the evidence and leaving to join Sara across the lawn.

"It doesn't look good, Gil," Catherine shook her head, her gaze suddenly drawn past the man in front of her.

"What?"

"Check it out," she said pulling on a latex glove. A spot on the exterior of the building had suddenly become the most interesting thing in Buena Vista Springs.

"The wall's chipped," Grissom noted with a grimace of disconcert.

"That's not all," she sighed taking a closer look, a cotton swab finding its way to her hand. "I think I've got some blood here," she stated swabbing the area of interest.

"What the hell happened here?" Grissom asked.

* * *

It was dark now.

They weren't in the Denali anymore.

Where were they?

Warrick slowly sat up. His hands were no longer tied. The pain however was still very real.

They'd been brought back to the community center.

Why?

What were they planning?

Looking around, the light was faint; the one window to the outside was boarded up, letting little, if any light inside. The room they were in must have served as an office at one point, when the community center had thrived.

"Nicky, man, wake up," he nudged his partner. He found him lying on the floor next to him. His shirt was soaked in sweat. Rolling the man onto his back, helping him to a sitting position, he lifted his shirt to examine the wound to his abdomen. "Damn, man, they got you good," he said his voice thick with concern. There wasn't much blood seeping from the wound, and the bullet hadn't exited his body.

"I'm okay," Nick choked out, his eyes fluttering open again catching the concerned look of his partner. He hated seeing that look on his friend's face. It was a look he'd seen all too often since last summer.

"Don't talk man," he shook his head, "and try not to move. You could be bleeding internally."

"You're hit," Nick shook his head, noticing the blood stain covering Warrick's shoulder.

"Damn, man, don't talk," he shook his head in response. "I can't tell how bad it is," he continued. The bullet had struck Nick on his left side, just below his ribs.

He had to find a way out. He had to get the man some help.

His phone, he thought patting down his pockets, his field vest. It wasn't there.

_Damn._

"Alright, bro. Sit tight. We'll get out of here," he said searching the room. The boarded window was their only chance.

* * *

It'd been raining for nearly an hour. They'd managed to clear the scene in time and had returned to the lab before the sky had unleashed its fury. The business of making sense of the evidence now lay before them.

Gill Grissom sat in his office, unwilling, practically unable to move from his chair. His guys were missing. How could he have let this happen?

He'd busted his ass to get his team back together, to get his guys back.

And for what? To have them taken away again?

Not on his watch.

Sitting now, in the quiet of his office he was transfixed by Nick's cell phone. In the three hours they'd been back at the lab, he'd been unable to break the staring contest with the electronic device.

They'd found bullets, shell casings, and blood linking them to eight of the ten victims. They'd found bullets and shell casings linking them to Nick and Warrick. But something was missing. Something was off.

"You okay?" Catherine asked slowly opening the man's office door. "I knocked," she shrugged, "but you didn't hear."

"Sorry," he shook his head, "I was thinking," he motioned the woman to enter. She was followed by Sara and Greg. "So, here's what we've got," she said taking a seat in front of the man's office.

"Five dead members of the 83 Crips," Sara chimed in. "Three dead members of the Rollin 60's, five more wounded and in custody."

"Ballistics is working on every gun we found, ten in all. That's not including Nick's weapon," Greg picked up the progress report. Grissom looked at the young CSI. He'd matured within the last year. He'd become a good CSI, dedicated to the job. He did his job well. When had he changed?

"DNA is working on the blood evidence, as we speak," Catherine shrugged. "It's not a lot. It sure as _hell_ doesn't get us any closer to finding Nick and Warrick."

"Does anyone know about the case they were working?" Grissom asked. He gave no acknowledgeable response, positive or negative, to the reports of his team. He was answered with a collective no. "Who was the detective on the case?"

"Cavaliere," Brass said entering the office. "Did I miss the powwow?"

"I want to talk with him," Grissom shot the detective a look.

"He's on his way in now," Brass nodded.

"Have him meet us at the scene," Grissom stood from his desk.

"Wait. You're going back out there?" Catherine stood, raising a hand, stopping the man in his tracks.

"If my guys are out there, so am I," he nodded grabbing his Forensics ball cap and parka. "Process the evidence. I want answers when I get back," he brushed passed his team.

Just as he reached the door, he was stopped by the sound of Nick's phone ringing on his desk. Catherine silently picked the device up, reading the caller ID.

"It's Nick's mom," she cast a look at her boss.

He didn't want to deal with the Texas judge or his wiferight now. The last time they'd met had been less than pleasant conditions. He didn't want to revisit the same situation.

"Don't answer it," he shook his head. "I'll be back in a couple of hours," he walked away, Brass following quickly in the man's wake.

The graveyard supervisor was on a mission.


	9. Chapter 8

**Note:** the suspense continues...thanks again for all the reviews! hope this chapter works well! Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Eight

* * *

The rain had stopped, the clouds nearly parted as Brass and Grissom rolled into the parking lot in Buena Vista Springs. The rain, though glad it was gone, had most likely washed away their chances of finding any evidence they might have missed in their first process of the scene. 

Gil Grissom hated the rain. He hated the fact that it took with it everything connecting him to his CSIs. He hated the empty feeling, the hollowness plaguing the pit of his stomach. He hated the helplessness he felt, the utter loss of hope he was experiencing as he stood in the vacant parking lot. He wanted to know if his guys were okay. He _needed_ to know they were okay, to believe they would find them.

He wasn't sure his whole reasoning behind returning to the scene was grounded in anything concrete. It had been the last place his guys were, the last contact they'd had with the now missing CSIs. He needed to find a connection, something to put his mind at ease, to assure him the guys were still with him. He had no idea what he was looking for. Something. Anything, to lead him to his guys.

If anything happened to them, he'd never be able to live with himself. The guilt, the overwhelming concern, he felt now was enough to drive him over the edge.

So many times he'd chided his CSIs for getting emotionally attached to their cases, for getting too deep. He hadn't even hesitated once to throw Warrick off a case. He knew when emotions were getting the better of his team.

So often he'd prided himself in the fact that he never got emotionally tangled in his cases. He never got attached to the victim or the victim's family. He'd prided himself in his infallible objectivity.

Now, though, it was emotions that drove him. It was what kept him glued to the asphalt, waiting for some sort of a clue, waiting for Cavaliere.

He had a few words he'd like to share with the detective, but more questions than anything.

Who were the primary suspects in the case? Who were they looking for as suspects now?

But, primarily, why hadn't he been on the scene when hell's fury was unleashed, and his guys were in the thick of it?

He shielded his eyes against the glare of headlights as he watched the detective's Ford Taurus pull alongside the Denali. He fought the urge to verbally barrel into the man as he climbed out of his vehicle. Instead he cast a menacing glare in his direction, appeasing himself with the somewhat sheepish look he received from the man. For now, he'd let Jim address the detective. He didn't want to risk the inevitable whiplash effect his words were bound to have on the man. It wouldn't solve anything to be rash. It wouldn't bring Nick and Warrick back.

Instead, he began walking the parking lot, field kit in hand, his eyes scanning the ground as the beam of his Maglite illuminated the ground just in front of him. Maybe something would jump out at him.

His suspicions of the lack of evidence were only affirmed as he traveled the length of the paved lot. Puddles spotted the ground from the recent rains. Any blood evidence that had been there before the rains had been washed away within the first fifteen minutes of the torrent of water. His chances of finding anything now were drastically decreased.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he heard Brass lay into the other detective. "What the _hell_ were you doing letting them come out here alone? You _damn_ well knew your best suspect was out. You know the rules! No CSI comes out unaccompanied."

"Damn it, Jim, don't put this all on me. Your CSIs didn't even tell me they were coming back out here! You know damn well I would have been out here taking a bullet with them if I had known," Cavaliere spoke up, his temper beginning to flare now as he matched Brass's stance. It was a show down of bravados.

"I should have your badge," Brass said.

"Hey guys," Grissom called over his shoulder. He'd found his way to the side of the community center building now. Trees were overgrown, the bare branches of the winter months jabbing out at the CSI supervisor, making his trek into the bush harder than it should have been. "As thrilling as it is for me to listen to this showdown of wits, can we uh get back to finding our guys?"

Throwing a piercing glare at the Latino detective, Brass resigned to following after the criminalist.

The look was almost enough to cause the man to stumble, as Cavaliere picked up the trail of Brass, curious to know what Grissom was so adamant about finding. There was little he hated more than being held in contempt for something for which he wasn't even responsible. The fact that Nick and Warrick had been stupid enough to return to the scene minus his backup was irrational and just plain idiotic. Regardless, if they were hurt, they needed to be found.

Not many in the department knew the background on the Rollin' 60s like he did. Well, there was Vega, but he was on leave for at least three weeks. He knew he'd be needed to fill in the gaps and bring the CSIs home safely.

"What have you got?" Brass asked as they caught up with Grissom in the thick of the brush.

"Careful," Gil shone his light up the steep ravine, "It gets steep down here." The advice was heeded by the detectives, but was of little help as Cavaliere no sooner lost his footing and found himself sliding down the rain soaked hill. It was all Gil could do to stifle the smirk inching across his lips as he watched the man land in the stream running at the bottom of the small ravine.

Throwing out a few choice words, the man slowly picked himself back up and turned to face the men in his company.

"Go to Hell, Gil," he grimaced, a hand supporting his lower back.

Apparently the smirk hadn't gone unnoticed.

"What have you got?" Brass asked, a smile forming in the corner of his own mouth.

"I'm not sure," Grissom shook his head. "My light reflected off something," he said continuing his venture. The brush wasn't as thick, the further into it he got, making his hike a little easier.

"What the…"Brass stammered as his eyes followed Grissom's line of vision.

There, three feet ahead of the men sat their missing Denali. Their eyes were glued to the back doors of the SUV as it sat nose first in the mini-stream at the bottom of the hill.

"Brass, let's get a tow up here," Grissom said not taking his eyes off the vehicle. Brass immediately put in the call as Grissom continued to look the vehicle over. The exterior had been riddled with bullets in the ground war of earlier that evening. Slowly inching his way closer, Gil reached out and opened the back door. It was empty as he'd expected it would be, though the wave of relief that rushed over him may have suggested otherwise. The blood stains he found, however, were enough to make his stomach revolt. Recoiling, as if the vehicle had bitten him, he let the doors slam shut. It had been the last thing he'd wanted to find, evidence that his guys were hurt, injured in the gun fight.

Without a word, or a look at the detectives, who were bound to have witnessed his uncharacteristic reaction, he started to make his way around the front of the SUV.

"What are you thinking?" Brass asked, his loafers squishing in the mud. Had he known he'd be going off roading, he'd have worn better shoes.

He shouldn't have expected a response from the man. They'd worked scenes together frequently. He knew the man processed in silence. It was foolish of him to expect an answer.

He watched now as the man before him began searching the ground, his light now tracking back up the ravine. There were tracks in the mud.

Brass threw a questioning glance toward Cavaliere. It was clear the man was as clueless as he as they embarked on the tedious climb back up the slope.

"Check out the tracks," Grissom said as they returned to higher ground.

"What about them?" Cavalier nearly smirked. The glare from the criminalist brought his attitude back into check.

"The car was pushed down the hill after the rain had started."

"And you know this how?" Cavalier asked, genuinely curios.

"The tracks are deep, there's water pulled in the tread marks. If the ground had been dry when the vehicle was ditched, the tracks…"

"The tracks wouldn't be so deep," Brass chimed in.

Grissom nodded, his attention now drawn to the back of the community center. Walking along the side of the building his eyes fell to the ground. There was something off, something out of place. There was glass along the sidewalk that wrapped around the building's perimeter. Had it been there before?

"Catherine," Grissom said whipping out his phone and dialing his female counterpart back at the lab. "Tell me you collected glass from the scene this afternoon, from the back of the community center. Well, look at the photos, is there anything documented?"

_"Sorry, Gil. We didn't find any glass this afternoon. Why? You got something new?"_ she asked her curiosity peaked.

"I'll let you know," he said ending the call as he crouched to have a closer look at the glass fragments. There wasn't much, just enough to attract his attention. "There was no glass collected from the scene this afternoon," he said to the detective standing beside him. "This is fresh," he cocked his head to the side looking further down the sidewalk as he shone his light allowing the suspected path of glass fragments to reflect the beam. His light then meticulously scaled the wall, stopping abruptly about three feet off the ground. There was a window.

"You think they're in there?" Brass asked. He lowered his voice now, fearing any possible suspects inside would be alerted to their presence.

It wasn't his first time he'd tried reading the man's mind. It seemed to be easier than getting the man to talk.

"The window was broken from the outside," the man nodded as he stood in front of the window noticing the Haeckel marks on the fragmented glass. His voice too was now lower. He seemed to have the same reservations.

A grim expression blanketed the man's face as his eyes fell on a spot on the concrete windowsill. Pulling out a cotton swab, he swabbed the area, his eyes focused tightly on the area of interest.

"Blood," he said, his brow puckered as he cast a wary glance at the detectives standing beside him now.

"I'll call for backup," Brass nodded.

* * *

"What's the plan?" Miguel asked pacing the floor. He was scared. He was in deep, too deep. He wanted out. 

He felt hostage to his brother, to the gang. For so long it had been his livelihood, his bloodline. Now, it threatened to end him, to bring him crashing down. He wasn't sure what scared him more, his inevitable fate with the law or the man next to him. The crazed look in his brother's eye was new and brought an unbelievable amount of fear with it.

"Give me a minute," Raphael managed to stammer, the Glock hanging limply in his grip by his side. He'd found the gun beside the CSI, discarded and forgotten. He'd run out of bullets, and he needed the insurance. He hadn't hesitated in picking the piece off the ground, relieved to find the magazine half full.

He hadn't expected to bring things this far. When he saw the injured CSIs his first reaction was to end it there, to shoot them, to save himself. It'd been a whim he'd acted upon after holding the gaze of the conscious man on the ground. He'd held his gaze for only a second, but it was enough to break him.

Still, he couldn't risk the men IDing him later. So, he'd taken them, put them in the nearest car and run.

Now the sight of his brother frantically pacing in front of him was enough to make him come unhinged.

"Man, cut it out," he yelled at his younger sibling. "I can't think."

It been dark for nearly an hour as they sat in the abandoned building. It'd made it easy to see the lights of the approaching vehicle as it pulled into the parking lot.

Standing, moving to the nearest boarded window, he looked out between the cracks of plywood. An SUV similar to the one they'd ditched was pulling up.

"_¡Maldígalo!"_

"What is it?" Miguel asked his voice barely above a whisper as he joined his brother at the window.

"_La policia."_

He sat silent, watching the men standing in the parking lot. He watched as a second car arrived, and two of the men began exchanging words. Unable to hear what they were saying, he picked back up his pacing of the floor.

They were in hot water. Things were rapidly unraveling and he was quickly losing what little control he felt he had over the situation.

The men in the other room were ticking bombs.

It was a matter of time before everything blew up.

* * *

Warrick could hear the brothers arguing, but couldn't make out what they were saying. He really didn't care. He was more worried about finding a way out of the prison he was in. He was more concerned about finding the necessary help for his partner who struggled to hold onto life. 

Standing from his place beside Nick, he scanned the room, hoping to find something he could use to pry the boards off the window. The only things left behind from the days of the community center were a metal desk, a few Scotch tape dispensers in the center desk drawer, and a metal folding chair. It wasn't much to work with.

Making his way across the room he took in the window. The boards had been haphazardly nailed into the wall. Lucky for him, they'd been boarded from the inside. With any luck, he could pull the boards from the wall and make his way outside.

What he would do once outside was another story. He'd wrestle with that once he got there.

It would be a slow process. The window, though low enough to the ground, in easy reach for the tall man, would be difficult to clear with only one working arm. It would be hard to get enough leverage to rip the planks from the secured positions. He had to try, though.

The first board had come off relatively easy. The nails had rusted, and from the half-ass job someone had done in nailing the planks to the wall, the board came crashing to the floor.

He stood stock still, silent, expecting a rush from the punks outside. He was sure they'd have heard.

The only thing he heard was the labored breathing of his partner. Throwing a worried glance at the man on the floor, satisfied that he was still with him, he continued his work at the window.

The second piece of wood proved to be somewhat of a challenge. This one was nailed better, the nails were newer. It would take everything he had to clear the window.

Planting his left foot against the wall, he grasped the wood with his right hand. Pulling with every last ounce of strength, he heard the wood splinter as it released its grip on the wall and clattered to the floor in two pieces.

An overwhelming sense of victory was quickly replaced with the more overwhelming sense of defeat. His eyes remained glued to the window, past the boards, to the metal bars just behind the planks.

He was exhausted. His energy wasted. Their one and only escape route was now nothing more than a dead end. Defeated, he returned to his partner's side.

Nick didn't look good. In fact, he looked worse with every passing minute. His skin was ashen colored, his face covered in sweat, masked by the excruciating pain he was in.

"You know," Warrick said his own breathing coming in gasps from his most recent activity. "You really look like shit," he nudged the man beside him.

Nick's eyes fluttered open. That was happening less frequently, and even slower when it did happen.

"Bite me," he whispered.

He was going downhill fast. His chances of survival going down every minute they were held. As long as the kid's had guns, though, there was little he could do without risking his friend's life further. They'd taken enough chances.

He hated himself for bringing Nick into this situation, for bringing him back to the scene. Had they done their job the first time, they'd have Dominguez in custody and Nick wouldn't be fighting for his life. It should be him sitting there, fighting for his life, not his friend, his brother.

It was an all too familiar thing for Nick, and he hated that he was the one who'd put him back in the freakishly familiar situation.

Warrick looked back over at his friend. His eyes were closed, his breathing becoming more staggered.

"Hey man, come on," he nudged him again. "Nick!" he called out hoping to get the man's attention. "Nah, bro don't do this to me," he sat up as panic began to override his emotions. He shook the man now.

There was no response.

Time was running out.

Nick was dying.


	10. Chapter 9

**Note:** thanks again for all the reviews! If I didn't get a reply out to you...I'm sorry! Things are kinda crazy today...between writing this chapter...and things with my folks...well, there hasn't been time for much else! It makes me smile that all of you are enjoying this story! Seriously...  
Hope you enjoy this chapter as much as the last!

* * *

Chapter Nine

* * *

Word had spread quickly around the lab. It always did. It seemed to come as no surprise that Grissom's team was in trouble again. And while Grissom was out trying to find a clue, Catherine was left to deal with the bureaucratic backlash of the lab supervisor.

She had already had one rendezvous with Ecklie. It had come as no surprise his reminder on the lab's policy of dealing with terrorists.

Terrorists?

These guys were just kids. Sure, they were kids with guns, but still. How could they possibly be quantified as terrorists?

The thought of it made her shudder. They'd been through all of this before. She knew the drill. But this time there'd be no running to daddy for help. No, Sam Braun was of no use to her this time. This was something she had to handle on her own.

Standing in the DNA lab she was faced with information she dreaded. Blood samples had been collected from the scene. She'd taken it upon herself to process the evidence, to run the lab. The piece of paper sitting on the counter in front of her stared back up at her, laughing at her; it mocked her in her attempt to make heads and tails of the chaos from hours ago. It gave her no real useful information only seemed to confirm the fears she'd worked so hard to keep buried.

The blood they'd gathered from the scene had belonged to the gang members and Officer Sparks. When they'd ended up near the community center building, they'd found drops of blood, but hardly enough to process. Hardly. There was still enough to get a primitive sample and run the necessary procedures.

It hadn't taken long to finish the tests. The results were inconclusive. Still, the feeling in the pit of her stomach told her all she needed to know. Nick and Warrick were hurt, bleeding, and she was powerless to help them.

Unappeased by the results, yet satisfied that there was nothing left for her to do she walked across the hall to the ballistics lab. There she found Greg and Sara where she'd left them with Bobby Dawson.

"Striations match up perfectly. The bullet on the right is the bullet pulled from the scene. The one on the left is the test fire," Bobby Dawson smiled taking a step back from the microscope. "Take a look," he motioned for Sara to step in.

"Which gun did this one come from?"

"A .22 Semi-auto," the ballistics lab tech noted from his file. "It was one of the guns found on the scene. Tracked it back to a guy named Robert Valdez."

"Robert Valdez?" Greg asked.

"Yeah, and get this. One of the victims from the first scene was a Jorge Valdez."

"Well, the original crime was a drug deal gone bad, wasn't it?" Greg shrugged. "That doesn't mean the cases are linked other than the fact that Nick and Warrick are involved."

"They could be related," Sara added on quickly.

"Hold it," Catherine raised a hand, stopping the conversation. "I'm not following. We picked up a gun from our crime scene?"

"A .22 semi-automatic," Sara nodded as if seeing Catherine for the first time.

"This .22 was used how?"

"A bullet from this gun was pulled from Officer Sparks," Greg put light on the situation.

"Was it the fatal blow?"

"Yeah," Greg nodded.

"Okay, and we have evidence that this _same_ gun was used in the case Nick and Warrick were working?"

"A bullet from this same gun was pulled from one of their victims, a Jorge Valdez," Sara nodded.

"If this gun was used in the first shooting, and then in this one…" she trailed off, lost in her thoughts. "You think we're looking for the same shooter? Maybe the shooter from the first scene was at the second?"

"Yeah, maybe," Sara thought. There were so many damn questions and the answers weren't coming fast enough. Every minute they spent standing in the lab, running over all the what-ifs, was a minute they weren't out there looking for Nick and Warrick. She looked over at Greg, hoping to find an answer, something to bring them closer. She was met with the same desperate look she knew was on her own face.

"Okay. I've got blood from everyone on the scene," Catherine said as she walked the halls of the lab with Sara and Greg. "I don't know about you guys, but I'm fed up with sticking around here. We're as close to finding Nick and Warrick as we were three hours ago when Grissom left."

"What are you suggesting?" Sara asked.

"I'm going out there. I'm tired of sitting on the sidelines waiting for fate to deal us our next hand."

"I'll get the car," Sara smiled.

When Catherine set her mind to something, she was just as driven as the rest of the team. The look of determination may have hidden the appearance of concern that was sure to have shown on her face but it did little to squelch the feelings in her gut. It was time to get answers and do whatever was necessary to get them.

* * *

Grissom, Brass, and Cavaliere now stood behind the GMC Denali, about twenty feet from the main entrance of the community center. A call had been made, SWAT teams were in route. If their guys were in there, they weren't taking any chances.

The pit of Grissom's stomach again threatened to stage a full fledged attack. He was nervous. He never got nervous. It was all he could do to remain on his feet as he felt his knees buckle. Leaning against the vehicle he resigned to waiting. He hated waiting.

The tow truck would be at least an hour getting to the scene. It had apparently been a busy night in Las Vegas. It didn't matter. With possible evidence that his guys were inside the building, the banged up Denali was the least of his worries.

The call for backup, made nearly forty-five minutes ago, called for a discreet arrival. Chances are the people inside were already alerted to their presence. Still they didn't want to take any chances. Things had to be done right if they wanted the CSIs back as relatively unscathed as possible.

The arrival of the SWAT team, though, was a little less than discreet. Gil cringed as the bus pulled into the parking lot, and officers filed out of the vehicle awaiting their orders. If the men inside didn't know they were there yet, they knew now.

The less than discreet arrival had quickly raised the alarm in the neighborhood. Curious bystanders and onlookers flowed from their homes and now stood in the chilly night air watching things unfold. Mothers held their children. Fear and concern blanketed the crowd as Grissom allowed his eyes to scan the faces.

He hoped this was done right. He needed this to be done right.

"We haven't had any contact with anyone inside," Brass was talking to the SWAT commander. "We found evidence of a break in around back, found blood, so we called you guys."

"Okay, we'll set up a perimeter, you guys need to stay back out of the way," he nodded, his eyes surveying the building.

It looked as if all the windows had been barred over, and then plywood used to board up the interior.

"All the windows have bars?" he asked the detective.

"All but the one we found smashed in around back. Don't ask me how they got them out."

Grissom stood silent watching things unfold before him. He heard the blur of orders being given and saw the flurry of activity as the SWAT team scattered around the perimeter of the building. Things were happening quickly.

"Hey, Gil, have you called the lab? You're guys need to know what's going on," Brass brought the man back to reality.

He'd not even thought about the lab since he'd talked to Catherine nearly an hour ago. Patting down his parka, searching for his phone, he came up empty. Where was that damn thing? His frantic search was halted, though, as he saw the rest of his team pull into the parking lot.

"What the hell, Gil?" Catherine asked throwing her arms in the air as she surveyed the bustling scene. She too wore her navy Forensics parka. The air had grown cool after the rain storm. The parka, however, did little to ward off the dampness of the night air.

"Are they inside? Are Warrick and Nick in there?" Sara asked joining the mini-powwow in the parking lot.

"We don't know anything definitive, yet," Grissom raised a hand, bringing the seemingly unending chain of questions to a halt. "I found their Denali ditched in the ravine about 100 yards that way. It's pretty banged up. I also found some shards of glass and a broken window. You said there was no glass found on the scene earlier?" he directed his question toward Catherine.

"Right," she nodded urging him on with his story. Sometimes it took the man forever to get his words formed and delivered.

"I found blood evidence on the window. It was fresh."

"By fresh you mean since the rain," Sara commented. It wasn't a question, just a statement of clarification.

"Brass called in SWAT and now you're up to speed," Grissom said turning his attention back to the building of interest.

"So you think they're in there?" Sara asked.

"Well, you know as much as I do," Grissom said irritation mounting in his voice. "Did you guys get anything on the evidence?"

"A big goose egg," Greg smirked, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his jeans. The long sleeved tee shirt he wore under his field vest was of little protection against the cold. "We were able to match ballistics on one gun used in both shootings and trace it back to an owner."

"Who?"

"Robert Valdez," he offered the name. It apparently meant nothing to Grissom. "A Jorge Valdez was one of the victims in the first shooting, shot with the same gun. That same gun was used to kill Officer Sparks in the second shooting."

"Well, it's not much," Grissom shrugged, "but it's something at least."

SWAT was now in position, ready to make a move. Now if they just knew for sure there were people inside.

As if on cue, the sound of breaking glass came from the front of the building. Within seconds gunfire rang through the night. The sound of metal on metal resonated as bullets struck the vehicles.

"Get down," Brass ordered sharply as he ducked behind the Denali pulling out his piece. Cavaliere quickly followed suit. The vehicle was little protection against the ensuing gunfire as three more shots rang out.

Cries came from across the way as onlookers scattered fearing for their lives.

"Damn it!" Brass exclaimed taking a quick look around the corner of the vehicle. "I can't see a damn thing. Where are those shots coming from?" he called out. A look to Cavalier and the CSIs offered no help. They had all gone into survival mode, and then into the offensive mode, pulling out their own weapons, ready to fire back if the opportunity presented itself.

Grissom couldn't take much more of this. He had to get in there.

"God damn it, Gil! Stay down!" Brass ordered sharply placing a hand on the man's shoulder and pushing him out of the path of the flying bullets.

Time was again passing in slow motion. The whizzing of the bullets had stopped.

There was silence.

Slowly the detectives watched as the door to the community center slowly opened. Unbelievingly, Grissom watched as a young man slowly walked down the walkway, his hands raised in surrender. God, he was just a kid.

"Get on the ground! Get on the ground!" SWAT team members started shouting, their guns trained on the young man.

Slowly he complied, lowering to his knees then lying face down on the ground, his arms stretched out over his head.

"_¡No tire!"_ he repeated over and over, tears streaming, now, down his face.

The CSIs watched as the kid was taken into custody.

Brass quickly made a beeline to the suspect. There was fire in his eyes.

"Where are my guys," he slammed the kid against nearest vehicle. "Where are they!"

There was no response.

"Get him out of here," the detective scowled handing him over to a uniformed officer and returning to his post.Spotlights from various squad cars on the scene werenow trained on the window from which the gunfire had recently come.

"We've got to get our people in there!" Cavaliere said still ducking behind the SUV. "Get SWAT in there, now!" he directed his comment to Brass, his eyes matching the punchiness in his voice.

"We can't just send our guys storming in there. There's still an armed suspect inside. As long as our guys are in danger, we hold off," Brass rationalized as gunfire again rang out from the distant window. "Damn it! Does anyone have a shot?" he directed his question into the handheld radio connecting him to the SWAT leaders.

"Negative," came the response. "We're holding."

* * *

Things had rapidly gone from bad to worse. Raphael Dominguez watched now as more cops pulled into the parking lot. He could feel the panic rising within him, and watched with equal desperation as his brother frantically paced the floor.

"There's a lot of cops out there, man," Miguel said, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. It was the only place he knew to put them to keep them from shaking.

"You think I don't see that? You think I'm blind and stupid, man? Jesus!"

"What are they doing?" he asked nervously casting a glance out the crack in the window.

"I don't know man," he shook his head silently beating himself up for bringing his little brother into this hell. "I'm gonna get us out of it though. Don't worry," he said cupping the younger kid's face in his hands. He desperately wanted to protect his kid brother, and there was only one way he knew to do that.

He quickly pried the wood from the window, and smashed out the glass with the butt of the gun. This had to end here and now.

He didn't think twice about shooting the weapon. He'd already shot two cops today, what was one more? The people outside were just faces to him, a roadblock set up to keep him from getting out of there alive. Besides, the cops in the other room were probably dead already. They were just collateral damage.

He heard the screams of the women outside. He heard the cries of children mixed with the sounds of the bullets hitting metal.

Stopping only to check on his brother, he found the room he was in to be empty. He heard the slam of the door followed by the shouts coming from the cops outside.

What the hell?

Looking out the window, the sight before him tore him apart. His brother, now branded a coward, was on the ground, the cops on top of him, taking him away.

This had gone on long enough. He wasn't going down like this.

Shooting two more rounds off toward theparking lot, he left the room. The two cops down the hall were his only insurance now.


	11. Chapter 10

**Note:** thanks again for all the great reviews! and here's the next chapter!

* * *

Chapter Ten

* * *

Panic never really came easy to the six foot two CSI. He was usually the exemplar of poise and rigor. But, now Warrick Brown was feeling something all too familiar in the depths of his bowels. It was a feeling he'd hope to never have felt again. Something he never wanted to experience again, since the Hell that was last summer. 

It was the only time he could really remember ever being _this_ scared, this incapable of keeping the dark thoughts from running rampant inside his head.

_The A/V Lab was dark, the lights turned down. He guessed it made viewing media easier when the lights were down. But the media he was viewing now was straight from the dark, twisted mind of a sadistic psychopath. It made the lab TOO dark._

_Every two minutes. That's how often he clicked the mouse, bringing the gut wrenching view of his partner back onto the monitor. _

_Now, he watched curiously as the man buried somewhere yet to be discovered pulled out and began chewing a piece of bubble gum._

"_What are you doing, Nicky?"_

_It's not like he could hear him. It's not that he even expected a response. _

_He watched, his curiosity slowly turning to fear, as his friend took the gum and used it to plug his ears._

"_What are you doing, Nicky?"_

_He watched with full on horror as his friend brought his gun to his chin, cocked, ready to fire._

"_Don't do it, Nicky?"_

_He jumped back, his chair falling over, as the screen suddenly went black._

"_You son of bitch!"_

_There was nothing. _

_The screen was dark. _

_Then? Then sweet relief._

_The monitor lit back up, this time an eerie green hue._

"_You're still alive."_

That was just it. Nick never gave up. He expected him to always be there. He _had_ to be there. He _needed_ him to be there.

"Damn it, man. Don't punk out on me!" Warrick said panic rising in his voice. "Come on, bro. Talk to me. Open your eyes!"

Nick was losing blood.

Ignoring the pain in his own shoulder, Warrick sprang into action. Quickly removing Nick's shirt, he ripped the material in half. It was dark in the room, but the wound to Nick's abdomen was clearly visible. The penetration wound caused by the bullet was ugly. It had to be at least the size of a quarter in diameter.

He watched silently, time creeping by, as Nick's chest rose and fell. His breathing becoming more labored, more shallow with each passing second.

"Sorry, man. I know you like this shirt and all, but you'll thank me later," he looked at the failing man. He hoped to God he knew what he was doing. Damn, if having a nurse as a wife was of any consolation, his medical knowledge was quickly flying out the barred window.

Throwing up a quick prayer, he knotted the two halves of the torn shirt together. Bringing the nearly unconscious form of Nick forward, he wrapped the material around his partner's torso.

"This is gonna hurt something fierce," he said pulling the strips of clothing tight and knotting it over the wound and applying pressure with his hands.

Nick let out a cry of pain, his eyes shooting open, his arms wrapping around his midsection.

"Hey!" Warrick called out slapping his friend on the face getting him to focus. "Hey, man, look at me. We're getting out of here together," he nodded, his eyes full of determination. "Look at me, Nicky."

Nick slowly willed his eyes to focus on the man in front of him. He was cold. Unbelievably cold.

"You with me, man?" Warrick tried again.

"Yeah," Nick nodded, his voice coming as a hoarse whisper.

"Alright," he sighed, leaning back against the wall.

"Cold," Nick muttered beside him, his eyes closed again.

Warrick sat up, unbuttoning his shirt, only slightly relieved that Tina had insisted he wear a tee shirt underneath. Sometimes the woman could be a little more than overbearing, but this time it just may prove worth wile and even life saving.

"Here," he said wrapping his shirt around Nick's shoulders. "Doesn't look as good on you, but it'll keep you warm."

It'd been quiet outside their room. Too quiet.

"So, I was kinda thinkin' about some vacation days after this," Warrick said leaning his head against the wall. It was a waiting game now.

"Sounds good," Nick smiled weakly.

"Yeah."

* * *

The night air was heavy with moisture. It was only a matter of time before the clouds above unleashed their second dose of fury. Rain was unwelcome here. 

Grissom surveyed the scene in disbelief. How had things come to this?

He watched now as Brass headed straight to the first suspect. He was a kid, a teenager, probably still in high school. The fear in the kid's eyes went deep. It cut the man to the core.

"Where are they?" Brass demanded; the kid backed up against the squad car, his hands cuffed behind his back. The detective's face was merely inches from the kids. "I'm gonna be all over you kid. Get him out of here."

Grissom watched now as Brass returned to the safety shield of the Denali. The man was burning, yet worn down and it showed in the most peculiar way. Never had Grissom seen the man so driven, so emotionally worn.

"We've got to get in there, Jim," he said. It was a dumb comment, one that really shouldn't have been stated.

"Damn it, Gil. We go rushing in there, and our guys are sure as dead. If SWAT says hold, we hold," the detective cast a glare at the man. "What's your status?" the detective spat into his hand held radio.

"_No shot,"_ came the voice over. "_Repeat, no shot. We hold."_

Waiting could possibly be the worst thing about this situation.

His patience was running thin. The story appeared to be the same as he cast his eyes toward his team. Worried looksmixed with fear blanketed the faces of his CSIs. He'd seen those looks before. He hated those looks. It meant things weren't as they should be. It meant he was powerless. It meant his fate, and the fate of everyone involved was in the hands of someone else. And that was a scary thing to realize.

* * *

A choice. It was what everything came down to. Sometimes it was right, sometimes it wasn't. He knew this had been one of the wrong choices, but now he had to live with it. 

He had no choice.

No fear. It was how he lived his life. He wouldn't go down without a fight. He wouldn't go down like his brother had.

His brother. _Cobarde_. The damn coward.

So many things were happening. Things were going so fast, he couldn't think.

One thing he was sure of. He was tired of waiting things out. He wasn't going to break like his brother. He wasn't going to show weakness. He'd made a name for himself as the 60s kingpin. He was strong.

He needed a way out, and the front door was the only way he knew. The cops outside didn't seem to be in any rush to get things moving. They sat back, their guns trained on the building. If they weren't going to do anything, he would. He'd make a real name for himself yet.

Rushing down the hall, he came to the closed door.

It was a choice. One made on the spur of the moment. Shoot a cop or take a bullet. He'd made a choice. He was living with it now, working through it.

He was making another choice now. There was no turning back.

"You!" he stormed into the room, his gun pointing straight at Warrick. There was a look in his eye. Determination. Fear. Anger. Fear. Desperation. It was all muddled together, incomprehensible. "Get up!" he demanded of the cop.

There was no movement from the CSI.

"You want another bullet? Or maybe your friend does," he trained the gun on the other man. "Then get up! _¡Se mueve!_"

He couldn't keep his hand from shaking. But, the cop stood.

"Let's go!" he motioned to the door. "_¡Ahora!_" He wasn't moving fast enough.

Grabbing the man by the neck, he pushed him into the hall. The cop had maybe an inch on him, but he had all the power, the 9mm to the cop's back proved it.

"We're going outside. We're getting a car, and you're driving me out of here."

* * *

The situation had become volatile. Things quickly erupted, chaos ensuing. 

There was gunfire. Four shots, then silence.

There was shouting. The kids were yelling at each other.

Warrick sat up straight, his ears trained on the rising storm. He couldn't make sense of the sounds. Everything was jumbled together. Nothing added up.

Two more gunshots.

Then nothing.

It was deadly quiet.

What the hell was going on?

The question had no sooner run through his head, when the door to the room swung open. His eyes went immediately to the barrel of the gun. _His_ gun. The punk had his gun.

Things were rapidly deteriorating. He had no choice but to do what the kid wanted.

His head was in a fog, his legs heavy. Things were moving in a perpetual state of slow motion.

The feel of the gun on his back jolted him to a scary reality, speeding things up to an unnatural pace. He was abandoning Nick. Did he have a choice? The squeeze of the man's grip around his neck told him no. He'd made the only choice he could.

The lights outside were painfully bright. Squeezing his eyes shut against the glare, he felt nearly overpowering nausea ensue. The pain behind his eyes, mixed with that in his shoulder was enough to cripple him.

The kid was screaming, yelling at the people in front of him.

Opening his eyes, Warrick was met with the sight of familiar faces.

Grissom.

Catherine.

Sara and Greg.

Brass.

Cavaliere.

They were all there, watching with horror as he was held, a human shield, by a desperate kid.

It was a hell of a time to try to make sense of everything, but it was all he could do. He was powerless in the hands of this kid and he hated it. He felt the cold metal of the gun's barrel dig into his temple as he was pushed forward down the sidewalk.

He'd heard four shots, then two more, right? That was six bullets. He'd shot at least three earlier. It was only a ten round magazine.

It was a choice.

The looks in the eyes of the people he cared about drowned everything away. The thought of his friend slipping away took over his senses.

It was a choice.

It had to be made.

This damn game, this battle of wills, had gone on long enough.

Willing everything within him to work, he reared back. He was met with the sickening sound of bones cracking and the kid gasping for air as his elbow made contact with his captor's ribs. It was music to his ears.

* * *

Everything seemed to have happened instantaneously. Control of the situation seemed unobtainable. The thunderous noise of gunfire. The deafening sounds of silence. The uncertainty of the situation. The fate of two of their own hanging by a string. It was more than she could register. Her senses were on overload. 

Slowly, the door of the community center opened, the lights of the many squad cars maneuvered to catch the most recent activity. It was more than she could handle.

Catherine was filled with horror as she was greeted with the new scenario. She could feel the tension emanating from Sara and Greg as she saw their bodies tense.

"Find a shot," she heard Brass say into the radio.

Was he serious?

Warrick exited the community center.

"Stand down! Stand down!" Brass revised his order.

Warrick was quickly followed by a kid she assumed to be the second suspect. He was being used as a human shield. The crazed look in the eyes of the kid behind him, the shouting, the weapon, they were three things adding up to a very hazardous and potentially deadly situation.

As quickly as things had transpired, though, they were over. Warrick was on the ground, on his hands and knees, gasping for air, his chest wracked with hacking coughs. The gun was discarded.

The suspect was on the ground rolling in pain, his own breath failing him. SWAT was moving in to subdue him.

She was rendered immobile.

Was she in shock?

There was a flurry of activity around here. Sara was still beside her. Greg was still there. She wanted to run to Warrick, to know he was okay. She couldn't get her feet to move. As much as she wanted to, though, she couldn't make herself move.

She could only watch.


	12. Chapter 11

**Note:** okay...nothing really to say about the story itself...but...as I was watching CBS tonight...the great shows of NCIS and then Love Monkey...I was presented the teaser for this weeks CSI episode...and I have to say...the new look for George Eads is really growing on me! I mean...come on, the man is hot regardless the hair style...but this new look...the "new clothes" the new hair...i'm growing rather fond of it i have to say...  
granted i'm more into the mussed hair look anyway...but...dang...the man's hot!  
okay...now chapter 11...oh...and THANKS FOR ALL THE REVIEWS! WONDERFUL!  
okay...later!

* * *

Chapter Eleven

* * *

He watched.

The chaos before him slowly unfolded, taking the haphazard form of the resultant confusion and panic.

Warrick was coming out of the building, a gun held to his head. The frantic, nearly crazed look in the eyes of the kid holding his CSI hostage was enough to make Grissom's hair stand on end. Fear wasn't something he felt anymore. He'd gone beyond fear. He'd gone _miles_ beyond to overwhelming terror.

The blood on the CSI's shirt was the second thing he noticed. It was clear he'd been injured in his left shoulder. How bad, Grissom could only guess.

He was frozen, unable to move.

So, he watched.

It was all over almost as quickly as it had all started.

There was shouting.

"Move in! Move in!" Brass was yelling.

Was he yelling at him?

"Stay down! Stay on the ground!" SWAT had moved in, and now had the suspect in custody.

Their voices were muffled, fogged by a cloud of obscurity and confusion.

Warrick was hunkered on the ground, his body wracked with hacking coughs. His chest heaved in an attempt to welcome the cold night air.

Grissom's feet were moving before his brain picked up on the activity. He was beside the man before he could even process what had just transpired.

"Nick," Warrick shook his head, his voice raspy, weak from the sudden rush of available air to his lungs. "Go get Nick. I'm okay."

The building was dark as he rushed in the front door. The warnings shouted by Jim Brass went unheeded as he rushed into the black unknown. He could feel the presence of the almost gruff man closing in on him and moving in front of him, his gun drawn.

The darkness was thick, the air heavy and cold. There was an unsettling calm within the narrow walls of the hallway as Grissom followed closely behind the detective, his flashlight illuminating the passage.

There was only one door on the left. It was a large room, empty except for a lone chair. The window nearest the door had been broken out, the wood split in an attempt to clear the barrier away. The ghosts of the suspects, the echoes of gunfire resonated within the walls sending a chill up the senior CSI's spine.

There was no sign of Nick.

Continuing down the hall, there was one more door on the right side of the passage. _Oficina _was painted in square letters on the solid metal mass. Grasping the door knob, Grissom's heart sank as the knob resisted the turning motion. It was locked. They couldn't get inside.

"Damn it!"

"You're kidding me. It's locked?" Brass asked incredulously.

"SWAT!" Grissom yelled down the hall toward the open door. "WE NEED A BATTERING RAM! LET'S GET THIS DOOR OPEN! COME ON!"

It felt as though minutes had passed before SWAT responded, running down the hall, battering ram in hand. With one smooth motion, the doorframe was splintered, as the ram was forced into the metal form of the door. The door swung lopsided on its hinge, revealing the nearly empty room.

The sight before him caused Grissom's breath to catch in his throat.

Nick sat on the floor; his body slumped slightly to the side, his back was to the wall. His eyes were closed, a makeshift bandage tied roughly around his midsection. His breathing…was he still breathing?

Rushing forward, Grissom knelt beside the lifeless form of the Texan. He found the man's pulse, weak but present. His breathing ragged and shallow, it was clear an extraordinary effort was necessary with each intake of air.

"MEDIC! I NEED A MEDIC IN HERE!" Grissom called out, his gaze cast momentarily to the detective in the doorway.

"MEDIC!" Brass repeated the urgent call down the hall.

"Hang on, Nick," Grissom urged, his attention returning to the ailing CSI, his voice low, almost a whisper. He bent now over the man, his hand feverishly working to remove the knotted shirt to look at the wound.

It didn't look good. It fact, it was horrifying. Blood saturated the once orange shirt as Grissom discarded the material and used his hands to apply pressure to the wound.

It seemed eternity had passed before the paramedics on the scene breezed into the room.

"Sir, we need you to step aside," medic one said trying to ease him away. His face was a blur as Grissom looked up, unable to focus his attention.

"Gil, let them do their work," Brass interjected softly, an understanding hand on his friend's shoulder.

Reluctantly he released the pressure and step back. The medics slipped in, continuing the application of pressure. He could only watch, the words of the medical team becoming muffled in the confusion. Nothing was making sense to him anymore.

All of a sudden the air inside that room was suffocating.

He watched dumbfounded as Nick's limp form was lifted onto the awaiting gurney and wheeled down the hall. Dazed, disoriented, he followed the team back into the cold night air.

Warrick, where was Warrick?

Silently, he let his eyes scan the scene before him. The ambulance, its red lights flashing was pulling away now; its siren sounded miles away.

It was déjà vu all over again.

"Gil?"

Was someone calling for him?

Where was the rest of his team?

"Gil?" Brass repeated, a hand returning to the man's shoulder. "You okay?"

He nodded his head in response, in was a reflex more than an honest answer. His eyes then fell to his blood covered hands.

Nick's blood.

Nick's life.

How could things have possibly gotten this bad?

* * *

Slow. Then fast. That's how things were moving.

Catherine suddenly found herself helping Warrick to his feet, his coughing fit slowly subsiding. She couldn't remember actually moving from her frozen position, but was glad to find something to do.

Silently she slid in under the man's right arm, her arms supporting him around his waist. The ambulance was less than 20 feet away. She was relieved to see Sara quickly join in the effort to support the man nearly half a foot taller than she.

Slowly the three made their way to the awaiting ambulance, the medic quickly intercepting and taking over the support.

"Warrick, what happened?" Catherine asked her mind running wild with questions, possible scenarios, and concern for the man before her. "Where's Nick?"

"Inside. They left him inside," he shook his head, his hand rubbing at his neck. "He's hurt pretty bad."

"What about you?" she asked her eyes falling to his left shoulder. Blood was oozing from the bullet wound, soaking his already wet tee shirt.

"I'm fine," he shook his head, his eyes glancing to his shoulder.

"Like hell," Catherine smirked.

"We need to get this shirt off," the medic interjected working a pair of scissors to slit the shirt.

"Hey man, that's a good shirt," Warrick sat up, his eyes becoming droopy.

Leave it to Warrick Brown to be concerned about his clothes in the middle of a bad situation. Catherine had to smile.

"Hey, hey!" Catherine said placing a hand on his face noticing the man's deteriorating condition. "Warrick, look at me!" He was hot, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead.

"Let's lay him down," the paramedic said to his partner easing the CSI back onto the gurney. "Ma'am we need to get him to the hospital," the medic continued catching Catherine's concerned gaze.

She nodded slowly, stepping back only slightly.

"Cath, Nick, is he okay?" she heard Warrick's voice. It was weak, hoarse.

"They're bringing him out now," she nodded placing a hand on his forehead, nearly flinching at the heat radiating from his skin.

"Good," he nodded, his eyes closed.

She was scared, worried for her friend.

When she had seen Warrick collapse on the sidewalk, fighting for his breath, she felt her heart wrench. Her stomach knotted, her face twisted in concern and fear of the situation.

There was no hesitancy in her steps as she'd rushed over to help the man she'd worked with for so many years. Her emotions bordered between motherly concern and something not quite discernable.

But, now as she slowly stepped out of the back of the ambulance, watching silently as it drove away, its lights flashing, its sirens whirring, she felt her emotions battling within her. The only thing she hated more than the helpless feeing in the pit of his stomach was the look she saw in Warrick's eyes. His eyes were vacant, miles away from the vibrant, carefree man she was accustomed to seeing.

And that scared the hell out of her.

"Has anyone called Tina?" Sara asked. She'd nearly forgotten Sara was beside her.

"I'll do it," she closed her eyes, turning her gaze to the approaching medics as they worked on Nick. "I'll call her."

* * *

She was used chaos. Her entire life had been chaos.

So why was this so different? Why was this so different than any other time in her screwed up life?

Nick and Warrick were involved, that's why things were different. Things were always different with Nick was involved. And now that Warrick was hurting, was in danger, well that pissed her off twice as much.

When she'd seen Warrick coming out, the gun to his head, she'd felt something rise within her. A rage she hadn't felt since…well, since last summer.

It wasn't often she felt a rage so overwhelming, so blinding. She could only think of maybe one other time in recent past she'd felt such a blinding rage.

_A child lost in the shuffle of social services. A mother working to provide all she could for her sons. A guardian too preoccupied with her own life to notice the fragile lives of her three nephews. _

"_His ribs are poking through is skin. He starved to death, didn't he?" she'd asked Dr. Robbins as she got the post-autopsy report._

"_C.O.D is renal failure due to starvation. His intestinal tract was virtually empty, except for these brown flecks I found."_

_They'd determined them to be lead based paint chips._

"_This took weeks," Sara shook her head, her eyes glued to the small victim._

"_I have to admit this does seem especially cruel and unusual."_

"_When kids are involved, it usually is."_

She still struggled to get the faces of the victim's two brothers out of her mind. The fear in their eyes, the tears streaming down their faces was nearly unbearable. It made her heart rip in half.

Now, the rage she had felt then found its way back into her gut as she watched Warrick in the ambulance, fading. He was fading.

And Nick.

She found the rage within her changing to a new feeling. It was a feeling she'd felt more recently, a feeling that was all too familiar when Nick was in her eyes. It was a feeling she wished to never feel again when her friends were involved.

All consuming fear. Concern was mixed in there somewhere, she knew it was there, but the fear was so overpowering.

It was all she could do to make it to the grass in time, her stomach staging a full on revolt, purging itself of all its contents.

The look she got from Catherine didn't go unnoticed, just ignored.

She felt better, at least physically.

Emotionally, well that was another story.

She watched as Nick was loaded into the back of the ambulance and taken away.

She had to be strong.

Things would be okay.

They always were.

She had to believe they would be again.

* * *

The helpless feeling he was feeling seemed to be running throughout the entire team. He'd watched helplessly as the suspect was apprehended and taken away. He'd watched helplessly as Grissom ran to Warrick and then into the darkness of the community center. He'd watched helplessly as Catherine and then Sara ran to Warrick. He'd watched helplessly as Warrick was taken to an ambulance and driven to the hospital.

He hated feeling helpless.

He wanted to help. Yet, he couldn't make himself move. It was as if his sneakers had fused to the asphalt, keeping him glued to the pavement, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans.

He heard Brass calling for a battering ram, then for paramedics. They'd found Nick. It didn't sound good.

Willing his feet to move, he made his way into the building. He found Brass, his eyes meeting the detective's, finding a look that sent chills up and down his spine twice then one more time for charm. He shuddered, hoping to cast off the grim feeling that seemed to descend on him as he walked down the hall. His thin long sleeved shirt again served as a reminder that it was cold. The cold inside, however, was a different cold than outside. It was an eerie cold, a cold he only felt at crime scenes.

The place was filthy. It reeked of…was that urine, sweat and…?

…blood.

It came to him, unexpectedly causing yet another round of chills to descend then climb again his spine.

He found Grissom at the end of the hall, standing just outside the open door of another dark room. His hands were covered in blood.

Nick's blood.

His hand's were covered in Nick's blood, he realized as he watched, his mouth agape, his eyes wide in horror as the paramedics wheeled Nick past him.

It was last summer all over again, only…could it really be worse than last summer?

Maybe it could be. At least _then_ he'd found a way to make himself useful. He'd been the one to retrieve the fire extinguisher. He'd been the one to give the short blasts of CO2 into the Plexiglas cage. He'd been the one to kill the ants.

Tonight, he could only watch.

Tonight, he was completely useless.

And it was killing him.


	13. Chapter 12

**Note:** here ya go! Thanks for all the reviews...sorry i haven't gotten replies out! I read them all, though...thanks so much! hope this chapter is as enjoyable!  
and a special thanks to Kristen for the medical info! Definitely came in handy for this chapter!  
gracias!

* * *

Chapter Twelve

* * *

The doors to the ER were in perpetual motion. The opening and closing repetitive and hypnotic.

The sky outside was becoming lighter with each passing minute, the first hint of dawn making its presence known as Grissom became transfixed by the automatic sliding of the emergency doors. Around him doctors and nurses scurried about their routines, their charts in hand as they ran for tests or to meet the needs of the next patient.

Desert Palms was a hub of activity, yet an aura of calm surrounded the building. Green lawns, colorful plants, and full shrubbery covered the grounds despite the winter chill, providing an almost calming effect. It did little, though, to calm the nerves of the CSIs waiting in the waiting area.

The plastic chairs did little to accommodate the nervous crowd, their presence nearly going unnoticed as most of the team took to pacing the floor, or standing huddled together in some attempt of support.

When Grissom had seen Nick, his very life seemed to lurch from his body. Everything within him had crumbled at the feeble condition of the man. His anger and fear had been squelched into an overpowering sense of despair as he attempted to apply pressure to the CSI's wound. It had been a desperate attempt to control the bleeding.

The paramedics had immediately loaded the man on a stretcher and wheeled him to the waiting ambulance. Grissom, once the fog managed to clear from his brain, had quickly gathered the team and followed suit to the hospital.

The drive in itself was long and nearly unbearable, the silence nearly deafening. The only thing keeping him going, the overpowering need to know his guys would be okay. It was what kept his foot pressing the accelerator, what kept his eyes on the road before him.

The look he'd noticed on Catherine's face as he'd walked out of the community center was enough to stop him cold in his tracks. He hated the look on her face. He hated that she was hurting. He hated even more that he couldn't protect the people around him. He couldn't protect the people for whom he was responsible. It was a sic realization he'd been faced with on too many occasions.

The waiting room was small, cramped. There wasn't enough space. He was suffocating. The confines of the chair were stifling. He needed air, needed to get away from…everything.

It was at that moment, he noticed Tina rushing through the receiving doors. Her brown eyes were wide with concern, with fear. Had she been crying?

Someone needed to talk to her, to catch her up on what had happened, to reassure her that things would be okay. He was glad that someone was Catherine. He'd never felt a sense of relief as gratifying as when he watched Catherine greet the woman, Warrick's wife, and began explaining what had happened. It was better that she do it. Words seemed to be useless to him at the moment.

_There was a situation;_ he could guess Catherine was telling her as they walked away from the group. _Shots were fired. Warrick was hit in the shoulder. He and Nick were taken and held hostage. We don't know anything yet. The doctors are still working on them._

They'd been through this before. It was the same thing each time. Each time their guys made it out, relatively okay. He had no reason to believe it wouldn't happen again.

He watched now as Sara sat beside the shell shocked wife. There were no words, just the comfort of another body nearby.

Catherine was making her way across the room now, toward him. He didn't feel like talking, didn't think he could even if he wanted to.

"You okay?" she asked taking the chair beside him.

He nodded his head slowly, fearing his voice would fail him were he to try and speak. He was relieved to see the form of the approaching doctor, his attention momentarily sidetracked from the arduous task of creating small talk.

"How are they?" he asked standing to meet the man. Tina quickly pushed her way through the crowd huddling around the men.

"Are you Tina Brown?" the doctor asked his gaze shifting to the petite woman. A nod of the head was all the confirmation he needed to continue. "You husband suffered extensive trauma to his left shoulder. Most of the damage was relatively minor, some tissue damage. There was some minor muscle damage as well that can easily be repaired. He lost a significant amount of blood at the scene. We've already administered one blood transfusion, and may need to give him a second. I'm particularly concerned with the high fever he seems to be running, right now. It seems he's contracted an infection in the wound tract. We retrieved splinter fragments from the entrance point, some form of wood splinters. We've administered a round of antibiotics and have him on IV fluids for minor dehydration. He's on his way up to the OR now to retrieve the bullet and repair any muscle damage there may be."

"But, he'll be okay?" Catherine spoke up, her arms crossed in front of her.

"With some follow up physical therapy, I don't see any reason why he won't make a full recovery," the doctor nodded addressing the whole group. "There's a waiting room up in surgery. A nurse can take you up there if you like. He'll be allowed visitors once he's out of recovery."

"What about Nick?" Grissom asked. His voice sounded odd to him.

"Mr. Stokes' injuries were quite a bit more severe," he started slowly, pulling out the patient chart in his hand. "He was brought in, in an extreme state of shock due to severe blood loss. The bullet entered just below the rib cage on his left side. When he was brought in, his blood pressure was dangerously low. We had to auto-transfuse him to bring his pressure back up to a more normal level before we could administer anymore medication. We've been able to get his hemoglobin and bilirubin back up to a semi-normal levels as well.

"He suffered an injury to the left side of his neck, also resulting in a significant loss of blood. We were able to get that bleeding under control. He'll need several stitches.

"The wound to his abdomen, however, is a little more difficult to assess. We've administered IV fluids, antibiotics and vasopressors in order to get his blood flowing to his organs and offset the effects of shock to his system. We've administered three blood transfusions already and are preparing to administer a fourth. He's had significant trauma to his midsection, and has suffered several internal injuries. Quite honestly, I'm surprised he's made it as far as he has.

"He's being transported to the OR now. The surgeon will explore the wound tract, and make any repairs that he can.

"Does Mr. Stokes have any family?" he paused now, his eyes falling on Grissom.

"Yes, in Dallas," he nodded, his voice still surprising him.

"It'd be a good idea to give them a call," he nodded turning to leave.

"Thank you doctor," Grissom nodded.

The news wasn't dire, but it was far from great. Warrick would make a full recovery. His injuries, though nothing to be sneezed at, were less worrisome now that they knew the extent of the damage. The bullet had missed any major arteries, and what injuries he had sustained were fixable. The infection seemed troublesome, but also fixable.

Nick's condition on the other hand, well he found it easier not to think about.

"Gil?" Catherine asked from her seat. The group had divided, had found their places in chairs around the room. He'd remained frozen in his place, standing, staring in the direction in which the doctor had recently retreated.

He turned and saw the woman he'd worked with for years. She looked different to him. Slowly, hesitantly he returned to the chair in which he'd previously taken up residence.

"Why don't you go home?" Catherine asked quietly.

"I'm fine," he shook his head, his brain still working through the fog from all the events and information recently stored into his short term, and ultimately his long term, memory.

"You look like hell. Why don't you go home, clean up a little? You can't go in and see Nick looking like that," she said her voice low.

He looked down, taking in his own appearance. It'd been the first time he'd done so since leaving the crime scene. His hands were stained, almost a copper color. His clothes covered, smeared with blood.

He couldn't make himself move. But, as much as he hated to admit it, the woman beside him was making sense. It was something that was happening more and more the longer they worked together.

"Look, Nick and Warrick will be in surgery at least a couple hours, probably even longer. I'll stay here, Sara and Greg are here. We all have your number. If anything comes up, we'll call you," she rationalized.

Giving in to the logic behind the woman's words he nodded and slowly rose from his chair. "Call me the minute you hear something," he pointed a finger. "I'll be back in an hour."

She watched the man leave.

Her cell phone was in her hand. She'd been staring at it for God knows how long, willing her fingers to dial the number she knew she needed to dial. A call to the Stokes family was quite possibly the thing she feared the most, next to…well, next to Nick not making it. A call to the Stokes family was never under good circumstance, was never a desirable thing. Working up the nerves, she steeled herself, and forced her numbers to punch the much hated numbers on the keypad.

She sat back in her seat.

The phone was ringing.

* * *

The interrogation room was cold and dark. The presence of the detective only helped to enhance the coldness.

"Listen, kid, your ass is mine," Brass said, his face inches from that of Raphael Dominguez.

He'd watched the ambulance drive away, Nick in the back. He'd then parted ways with the CSIs and returned to the department. While he wanted no more than to be at the hospital to lend his support, he knew his time would be best spent getting the ball moving at PD. He had no greater pleasure than closing the case on the punks that put his friends on a repeat of the hell they'd already faced one.

The Dominguez brothers now sat in separate interrogation rooms. While Brass spent his time with the older, detective Cavaliere roasted the younger.

"Look, talk or don't talk, but we've got you," Cavaliere leaned into the young man in the next room. "And you better believe we're putting you away for life. You shoot a cop; you better believe you're going down. You want to save your skin? You better start talking."

He glared at the kid, now, from across the table.

"If my guys die," Brass said, his eyes merely slits as he glared at the older brother, his voice low and menacing, "you're looking at the needle, bud."

Neither brother seemed willing to talk, not at all surprising to either detective. They were wasting their time.

"Look," Cavaliere said walking behind the boy as he sat in the metal straight backed chair. "We know what went down. The 83s are all singing the same song. They say _you_ guys started the shoot out. They say _you_ guys shot the cop." The stiffening of the kid's posture was like music to his ears. He knew he was striking a chord. "I mean, that's what happened right? They come on your turf. They had it coming, right?" He waited, now. The kid was sweating.

"Maybe your brother was the mastermind behind it all. Maybe you felt trapped in the situation, had no way out. That really can't be it, though, can it?" he asked walking around the table and taking a seat across from the now scared looking kid.

"You know," Brass smirked. "Your kid brother's in the next room telling my partner all this was your idea. He said you were holding him hostage, that he had no choice. If that's true, well it doesn't look good for you…" he trailed off standing to leave the room. "You know," he stopped at the door momentarily, "I thought blood was supposed to be thick. I thought all you guys stuck together. But, to have your kid brother rat you out?" he shook his head. "Get him out of here," he motioned to the officer in the room.

He moved to the hallway, watching as the officer escorted Raphael Dominguez out of the cramped space.

"Hang on a second," he stopped them just outside the door. "You know, I really had high hopes for you. I thought you'd be smarter," he shrugged backing up just as Cavaliere came out of his interrogation.

The two detectives stood, watching as Miguel Dominguez was led out into the hall.

"_¡Hijo de una perra!"_ Raphael exclaimed making a jump at his younger brother. "I trusted you!" he scowled at the shrinking form of Miguel.

"_Mi hermano,_" Cavaliere stepped into the attempted scuffle, "_ahora no importa. Sabemos qué fue abajo_. _Usted ve, usted se dijo hacia fuera. Su asno es el mío. Consiga utilizado a él."_

Silently, the detectives watched as the brothers were taken to lock-up.

"What'd you say to him?" Brass asked, his brow raised in curiosity.

"Told him we know what went down," he shrugged nonchalantly.

"What else did you say?"

"Told him his ass was mine, to get used to it," he smiled slightly.

Brass nodded in understanding. Cavaliere had a way of crawling under his skin. Most of the time he steered clear of the man, not liking his style with suspects. Tonight, though, the man had proven to be an asset. He'd busted his ass to get Nick and Warrick back, hadn't neglected his duties. He'd proven himself.

"You want a ride to the hospital?" Brass asked the man beside him. "I'm heading on over."

"I'll meet you there. I have a couple things to take care of here, first."

The two parted ways, a new understanding silently reached between them.

* * *

The sun was just breaching the horizon as Grissom rolled back into the hospital parking lot. He'd arrived just as Brass was climbing out of his vehicle. The two nodded in greeting as they met and made the long walk toward the hospital entrance. It was like a dance they'd perfected within the past nine months.

The walk to surgery was quiet and rhythmic.

The waiting room was even quieter.

It was a painful game they'd been playing the past 12 hours.

But, the waiting game continued.

It was all they could do.

So they played the familiar game silently.

They played like pros.


	14. Chapter 13

**Note:** okay..okay...here's the...very sad to say...final chapter! hopefully it rounds everything out and closes things nicely...please let me know!  
so yes...I'm an aunt now! my brother and his fiance had a baby girl on Thursday...hence my delayed update here...she's gorgeous! you can head to homepage (myspace) and check out some pictures of her! anyway...  
i'm already processing ideas for my next fic...will most likely be a while before i post anything up...still in the dark about my next topic.  
thanks again for all the great reviews! I'll see ya around very soon!

* * *

Chapter Thirteen

* * *

ICU was quiet. Almost too quiet. The beeping of the cardiac monitors, the hiss of ventilators served as the only reminders, the only assurance of life still present in the still quiet room.

Only family allowed in ICU.

Hospital policy.

Nick's parents sat idle beside their son's bed. It'd been two days since their arrival to Las Vegas. The pain in their eyes was all too fresh, a brutal reminder of the reason they were there. Another reminder of the time they'd last come to Vegas; another cruel reminder of the man that had brought them all together last summer.

Catherine hated seeing that look in their eyes. It was a look of pain, of sorrow and almost defeat. It was a look of parents desperately hanging on to hope that their youngest child would be okay, that he would pull through again.

She couldn't bear to see that look again, that look that all was not right with the world. That look, that feeling of knowing someone she loved was hurting and she was powerless to fix it.

"How's he doing?" Grissom asked coming up behind the woman. They were in the hallway, the stark white hallway of the trauma center at Desert Palms, just outside the intensive care unit. It had been three days since the shootout at the community center.

"About the same, I guess," she shrugged, her eyes glued to the sight of Nick, the tubes leading into his arms supplying him with blood, fluids and pain medication, the tubes supplying fresh oxygen, were enough to make her wince. "He opened his eyes for a little bit."

"How are _they_?" he asked, his eyes falling on the forms of Nick's parents. They looked tired, feeble. The past year had only aided and abetted the aging process of the older couple.

"They haven't left his side," she shrugged turning to face the man she knew almost as well as she knew her daughter. The man in front of her, the man she was expecting to see though, looked different. He looked older, less ragged around the edges almost. "Have you seen Warrick?"

"Just came from his room," he nodded leading the way back to the waiting area. "Says he can go home tomorrow."

"Yeah, the infection's cleared up in his arm. He'll have to go through some physical therapy, but he'll be fine," she sighed taking a seat in the mauve colored upholstered chair. The waiting room though dimly lit and adorned with various potted plants and a television tuned to the local news was all too uncomfortable. The comfortable looking chairs were only a harsh reminder of just how _uncomfortable_ the room really was. "He's more worried about Nick than he is about himself."

"How are you?"

"I don't know," she sighed, leaning back in her chair, her legs crossed right over left. "I mean, I know he's going to pull through, I mean I feel it in my bones. But, I see him in there, just lying there, and it's ripping me apart. I just… I don't know. We've been through Hell way too many times."

"Yeah, and Hell's starting to look a lot like a damn hospital," Brass nodded from the doorway of the waiting room. "How's Nicky?"

"Doctor's think he'll pull through," Catherine offered the detective a weak, tired smile. "They're keeping him sedated, and doped up on hefty pain meds, but they seem to think he'll pull through." She watched as the disheveled man took a seat across from her. It was an unusual site, the man before her, his tie hung loosely around his neck, the top buttons of his shirt undone. He had the appearance of a man who'd been driving through the desert in July with no A/C.

"The bullet entered just below the lower left rib, nicked the spleen and got lodged in the fifth rib in his back," Grissom began with the details of the injury. "The doctor said he lost almost 4 pints of blood. Had he been left at the scene any longer…" he trailed off.

It had been a close call, almost too close.

Again, it was something they were all too familiar with when it came to Nick Stokes. The man was a champ, though, when it came to pulling through tough spots. They had no reason to believe this time would be any different.

* * *

The sun was high. Winds were coming in from the south allowing temperatures to climb to unseasonably warm levels making the customary light jacket of this time of year unnecessary. It was a refreshing mid-February afternoon. The sixty degrees they were having sure beat the regular forties that seemed to plague the desert every winter. It was a hint of spring, a tinge of hope that it would come early this year.

The neighborhood was bustling in the early afternoon hour. The threat of rain and colder temperatures had people scurrying to soak in the warmth to hold on to it while it lasted.

Warrick sat in his truck, watching the activities. He'd been sitting there a while, unable, unwilling to move. His shoulder, his arm still in a sling, was tight. He needed to get out a move it. Slowly and reluctantly, he climbed down from his vehicle making his way slowly up the front walk.

He'd been out of the hospital almost three weeks now. Nick was going on his first week home and he'd yet to stop by and see him. He knew Nick's parents had stuck around a few days, but knowing now they'd flown back to Texas he had one less excuse for putting off the inevitable.

What was there to be nervous about? It was Nick. The man he'd worked with for over ten years. But, nervous he was, and for the life of him he couldn't get the butterflies to settle in his stomach.

He knew Nick's parents had left hours ago. He'd been on the phone with Grissom as his boss was leaving the airport after having dropped the judge and his wife off for their flight home. So, he knew they were gone. He wouldn't be forced with uncomfortable small talk he knew would ensue were Nick's parents still around. He wouldn't be faced with the looks either. The looks telling him he was responsible for their son's situation. The looks of disappointment. He didn't care what Tina had to say, he wasn't imagining the looks of disdain.

Knocking on the door, he waited. He knew Nick would be there. He took the few seconds to steel his nerves. There was no turning back now.

Finally the door opened, the man he was met with was nearly unrecognizable. The baggy sweats and tee shirt could barely hide the fact that the man had lost weight and was still considerably weak. His shaggy brown hair was clearly unkempt and he hadn't shaved in a few days.

"Hey," Warrick nodded his good hand in the pocket of his jeans.

"Hey man, come on in," Nick smiled. He was supporting his weight on the door; it still took a lot out of him to stand upright. "I was just about to watch the Pacers game."

"How you feeling?"

"Better," he nodded slowly making his way back to the sofa. "You want anything? Got some beer in the fridge, there's some soda too. You know the drill. You want it you get it." He watched as the tall man made his way casually to the kitchen. "Grab me a soda while you're at it."

There was something off, something not right as he watched Warrick stride back into the room.

"Doc says no alcohol for a couple weeks, till I get off the meds," he shook his head skillfully catching the soda can tossed his way. "Thanks."

He watched silently as Warrick fell rather haphazardly into the recliner. It seemed the weight of the world was on the man's shoulders.

"What?" he asked, noticing Nick's attention on him.

"You tell me. What's up? When you get that thing off?" he motioned toward the sling.

"Ah, next week," he shrugged, his eyes falling to the material around his left arm. He'd become rather accustomed to the new accessory.

"The shoulder okay?"

"Yeah, it's cool," he shrugged. "Physical therapy's a bitch, though."

The two sat silently, their eyes on the television. Neither, though, successfully registered the progress of the game. Most occasions the silence between them was comfortable, natural, but today the silence was oppressive, full of tension. Minutes ticked by, but the feeling wouldn't give. It was driving him crazy.

"Damn it man, what's up?" Nick asked his eyes off the game now and back on the man beside him. "What's going on?"

"What do you mean?" Warrick asked his face scrunched in mock confusion.

"I mean, you've been walking on egg shells ever since you got here. Talk to me, man."

"Aw, I'm cool," he waved a hand dismissively, his attention back on the TV.

"Like hell," Nick shook his head, reaching for the remote turning the screen to black. His eyes were full of the same determination he was used to seeing whether he was on a case or in the middle of a heated battle on the basketball court. "Damn it man, we've been friends for too long for me to know when something's up. So give."

"Damn it Nick," he stood suddenly, pacing the floor of the suddenly too small living room. "You almost died because of me." His anger and frustration reaching their boiling points, he turned quickly, the pain in his eyes nearly overwhelming. It broke Nick in half.

"What are you talking about?" Nick asked, the man's words nearly sending him for a loop. The last thing he'd expected was the man to blame himself for what had happened.

"If I hadn't had the _genius_ idea to go back to the scene, none of this _shit_ woulda happened," he slumped back into the recliner drained of his energy.

"Rick, you and I _both_ know we had to go back to that scene. Because we went back we found the evidence we needed to put Miguel and Raphael Dominguez behind bars."

"Yeah, but…"Warrick trailed off, his head leaning now on the back of the chair.

"Yeah but," Nick shrugged. "Shit happens; you know that as well as I do. Sometimes you _get_ thrown out the second floor window, but you get lucky and there's a bush to break your fall. _Sometimes_ you're six feet under, but there's always someone there to dig you back up. Come on man, this shit was no more your fault than it was mine."

"Nick…" he started slowly, "that's just it. You were _lucky_. What happens the next time when your luck runs out?"

His eyes locked on his friends. He'd always been lucky, every time he'd gotten in a hot spot; there was always someone there to pull him out.

He'd been lucky.

_What if_ his luck ran out next time?

What if…

What if Warrick was right?

He could bury himself in a heap of what-ifs; it wouldn't make life any easier. It wouldn't make him love his job any less or hate it any more. It wouldn't make anything different.

He'd learned to take the good with the bad. He knew he couldn't have one without the other. It was the way life was supposed to be. Honestly, he wouldn't want it any other way.

He shrugged, his eyes meeting Warrick's, "I guess I'll have to live with it."

* * *

"I'll hadDNArun a comparison," Nick nodded as he headed down the lab corridor. "The semen we found on the victim was a match to our John Doe."

"Great," Sara smirked, "so our primary suspect is now our second victim."

"Yeah, but our killer left behind something he didn't intend to," Nick smiled.

He'd been back to work for a week now, had jumped in with both feet anxious to get back to the life he loved. His time at home was well spent, healing and resting, but near the end of his time off he'd become prone to cabin fever and was itching to get back to the lab.

"What was that?" Sara asked her eyes quickly rising from the file in her hand.

"Check it out," the man beamed in front of her as he handed over the folder in his grasp. "You've got to be kidding me. You have got to be kidding me," she smiled heading to the break room where Warrick sat, his attention drawn to his own file of information. "You're kidding right?" Sara asked him as she slid the open folder across the table to land in front of him.

"Yeah," the man smirked leaning back in his seat. "What are the chances the suspect sticks around the scene to turn himself in?" he looked from Sara to Nick who stood at the entrance of the room.

"Guess we got lucky this time," Nick smiled.

"Yeah," Warrick smiled. "Guess so."


End file.
